§g|KCL!Y 


CALIFORNIA 


THE   FORERUNNER 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
FOX,   DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


Published,  October,  1903 

10AN  STACK 


gorh 


PS  3,503 


ES    IRRT    DER    MENSCH    SO    LANG    ER    STREET. 

GOETHE. 


554 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PART    I 


PART    II      ...........     .   153 


PART   I 


THE  FORERUNNER 


TTTITHIN  the  plate-glass  front  of  his  office,  which 
*  *  bore  in  new  gilt  letters  his  name  and  the  prev 
alent  words  "Real  Estate,"  Daniel  Devin  stood, 
looking  out  into  the  busy  street  and  bestowing  some 
final  counsels  upon  his  auctioneer.  He  had  to  use  the 
strength  of  his  deep  voice,  for  opposite  the  window, 
in  a  band-wagon  drawn  up  at  the  curb,  a  brass  band 
was  blaring  out  in  trumpet  notes  the  sentimental 
strains  of  "Little  Annie  Rooney,"  with  a  tremendous 
crash  of  cymbals  in  the  chorus.  The  driver  of  the 
band-wagon,  however,  was  ready  for  the  start.  He 
had  gathered  up  the  reins  over  the  four  horses  and 
was  looking  into  the  window  for  his  signal.  Daniel 
Devin  glanced  over  the  vehicle  and  the  line  of  omni 
buses  behind  it,  all  gay  with  flags,  bunting,  and  signs. 
A  fair  number  of  people  had  seized  the  chance  of 
fered  by  the  signs,  of  a  free  ride  and  a  free  lunch,  and 
were  already  seated  in  the  omnibuses.  The  proces 
sion  in  its  course  through  the  main  streets  of  the 
city  would  doubtless  gather  in  a  good  many  more. 
Devin  nodded  to  the  driver,  the  horses  started  with 
a  jump  which  shook  some  false  notes  out  of  the 
trumpets,  the  'buses  and  the  caterer's  wagon  rolled 
on  in  the  wake  of  the  band;  and  the  crowd  on  the 

1 


THE   FORERUNNER 

sidewalk,  after  a  friendly  cheer,   turned   to   other 
occupations. 

"Well,  I  shall  proceed  then/'  said  Mr.  Stoneman, 
the  auctioneer.  "I  have  a  few  things  to  arrange,  but 
I'll  be  at  the  ranch  by  the  time  you  are.  Somebody 
wants  you  at  the  telephone,  I  infer. " 

In  fact,  the  bell  on  Devin's  desk,  after  several  short 
rings,  was  now  thrilling  out  a  prolonged  impatient 
call. 

"All  right.    Just  wait  a  minute,  will  you?" 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Stoneman,  taking  up  his 
silk  hat  from  a  chair  and  eyeing  critically  its  immac 
ulate  gloss.  He  was  a  man  of  bland  look  and  urbane 
manner;  of  a  portly  person,  adorned  by  the  dignified 
black  coat,  low-cut  collar  and  bow-tie  in  favor  with 
solid  citizens  the  country  over.  He  looked  impor 
tant,  as  indeed  he  might  with  reason;  having  so 
wide  a  reputation  in  his  art  that  he  had  been  brought 
on  from  the  East  by  a  leading  citizen  some  months 
before,  especially  to  conduct  a  sale  of  land.  Since 
then,  sales  of  land  in  these  boom-times  had  kept  Mr. 
Stoneman  busy.  He  was  much  in  demand;  yet  his 
consciousness  of  that  fact  never  impaired  the  meas 
ured  courtesy  of  his  demeanor. 

Daniel  Devin  betrayed  much  more  impatience  at 
the  interruption.  Snatching  the  telephone  receiver 
off  the  hook,  he  slid  into  his  chair  and  shouted: 
"Stop  that  buzzing,  will  you?  Yes,  this  is  seven- 
nine-three.  Yes — yes,  this  is  Devin.  Who  are 
you?  What?  Oh." 

His  face  and  voice  underwent  a  sudden  change. 
He  half  smiled,  biting  his  lip  and  raising  his  eye 
brows  with  a  repentant  look, 

2 


THE   FORERUNNER 

''Oh,  I  didn't  recognize  your  voice.  How  are  you? 
.  .  .  Yes,  I'm  all  right — rather  busy,  yes.  I'm 
going  out  to  the  ranch  pretty  soon — the  sale,  you 
know,  this  morning.  .  .  .  What?  ...  I 
promised  you?  .  .  .  But  not  to-day — won't 

some  other  day ?  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  You 

want  to  go?  I  thought  you  said  .  .  .  oh,  I  didn't 
understand  you  wanted  to  go  with  me.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  I'm  sure.  Of  course  I  shall  be  de 
lighted  to  take  you  out.  But — the  sale,  you  see, 
begins  at  eleven — I  intended  to  start  in  about 
twenty  minutes;  I  want  to  get  there  before  the 
crowd.  .  .  .  You  have  to  sing?  And  I  promised 
to  go  and  hear  you?  Well,  ...  it  will  make 
me  late  to  the  ...  Now  don't,  you  shall  go, 
of  course  ...  of  course  I  want  you  to.  ... 
I'll  go  round  there,  and  then  afterward  we'll  drive 
out.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  want  to  do  that,  of  course  I 
do.  And  we'll  have  lunch  out  there — it  will  proba 
bly  last  till  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  Yes,  that's 
all  settled,  then.  What  time  does  this  show  begin? 
.  .  .  Well,  I'll  get  round  as  soon  as  I  can.  .  .  . 
Yes,  ...  no,  you're  not.  .  .  .  Good-by, 
then.  .  .  .  Good-by." 

The  intonations  of  Dan's  voice  betrayed  him  to 
the  auctioneer,  who  smiled  to  himself,  but  met  the 
expected  explanation  with  perfect  gravity. 

'The  fact  is,"  said  Dan,  laughing  in  a  slightly  em 
barrassed  way,  "I  can't  get  out  early  after  all.  I'd 
forgotten  an  engagement  for  this  morning — a  rather 
important  one " 

"I  understand,  sir,  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Stone- 
man  indulgently,  '  'There  are  certain  contingencies 

3 


THE  FORERUNNER 

in  which  business  must  be  subordinated.  .  .  . 
And  by  the  way,  Mr.  Devin,  I  trust  you  will  allow 
me  to  congratulate  you.  I  read  the  paragraph  an 
nouncing  your  betrothal  in  this  morning's  paper. 
I  have  had  the  pleasure — the  very  great  pleasure — 
of  seeing  the  young  lady.  I  heard  her  sing  at  the  re 
cent  concert  at  the  Opera  House.  I  hope  you  will 
allow  me  to  say  that  I  was  charmed — delighted. 
She  has  a  remarkably  fine  voice,  and,  if  you  will 
pardon  me  for  saying  so,  she  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  in  this  land  of  fair  women."  Mr. 
Stoneman's  unctuous  periods  showed  a  very  genuine 
warmth.  In  his  enthusiasm  he  offered  Dan  his 
hand. 

"Thank  you — much  obliged,  I'm  sure/'  Dan  said 
hastily.  He  shook  Mr.  Stoneman's  kid-gloved  hand. 
"But  this  rather  upsets  me — I'd  counted  on  being 
out  here  at  the  start.  Of  course  you  understand 
about  how  I  want  the  thing  to  go,  but  still — nobody 
can  tell  what  kind  of  a  crowd  we're  going  to  have — 
or  whether  we're  going  to  have  any." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Devin,  I  wouldn't  worry  about  that," 
and  the  auctioneer  smiled  broadly.  "Why,  sir,  I 
could  go  out  on  the  sidewalk  and  raise  a  crowd  in 
ten  minutes  that  would  buy  your  property!  It  isn't 
a  question  nowadays  to  find  people  to  buy,  but  to 
find  something  to  sell  'em." 

"I'm  not  worrying  much,"  Dan  said.  "Still — 
no  lot  is  to  go  under  a  hundred,  you  know.  If  they 
aren't  hungry  enough  for  that " 

"Oh,  rest  easy,  sir,  we'll  bid  'em  in.  But  a  hundred 
— Lord,  I'll  get  a  hundred  and  fifty  for  the  worst  of 
the  tract.  Why,  anyone  would  think  to  hear  you, 

4 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Mr.  Devin,  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  boom 
in  this  blessed  country  to-day. " 

Mr.  Stoneman's  speaking  countenance  was  nobly 
expostulatory.  Dan  laughed. 

"Well,  I  leave  it  to  you/'  he  said,  escorting  the 
auctioneer  to  the  door.  "Begin  at  eleven  sharp. 
I'll  be  out  as  soon  as  I  can/' 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  desk — a  new  one,  large, 
square  and  glittering,  and  elaborately  fitted  up.  In 
deed  everything  in  the  office,  from  the  Turkish  rug 
on  the  floor  to  the  paintings  on  the  wall,  was  new 
and  of  the  most  approved  pattern.  Dan  set  to  work 
to  finish  up  his  morning's  mail;  whistling  softly  a 
cheerful,  tuneless  strain,  frowning  now  and  then, 
yet  with  a  very  happy  look.  If  he  had  been  a  little 
aghast  at  Anna's  sudden  demand  on  his  morning — 
this  morning  of  all  others — he  had  quickly  resigned 
himself  to  it.  True,  he  was  not  looking  forward 
with  any  particular  joy  to  the  time  he  must  spend 
in  the  synagogue  where  Anna — though  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  clergyman — sang  in  the  choir.  He 
would  even  have  preferred,  perhaps,  that  the  ex 
cursion  in  her  company  should  be  deferred  to  an  oc 
casion  not  complicated  by  business.  But  they  had 
been  engaged  only  three  days;  this  was  the  first 
thing  she  had  asked  of  him,  and  the  granting  it  cer 
tainly  promised  some  compensations. 

Dan  was  much  interested  in  the  business  before 
him;  yet  as  he  ran  through  his  remaining  letters,  or 
read  over  and  signed  those  brought  to  him  by  his 
clerk,  his  thoughts  occasionally  wandered;  he  would 
catch  himself,  with  his  pen  suspended,  smiling  into 
vacancy,  and  with  a  momentary  frown  would  con- 

5 


THE  FORERUNNER 

centrate  again  upon  his  work.  But  even  when  he 
frowned  his  look  was  happy.  Indeed  all  his  thoughts 
on  this  brilliant  morning  were  pleasant  ones.  He 
was  young,  full  of  life  and  vigor;  he  was  in  love  and 
successful.  The  consciousness  of  success  and  power 
showed  in  his  resolute,  alert  face;  and  joy  in  life 
shone  in  the  vivid  blue  eyes  that  went  with  his  curl 
ing  black  hair  and  ruddy  color,  and  in  his  ready  smile. 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  his  letters  there  were 
several  people  in  the  front  part  of  the  office,  studying 
the  large  map  of  the  property  which  was  that  day  to 
be  sold,  and  waiting  to  see  Dan.  His  team,  too, 
was  waiting  outside,  and  the  restive  horses  had  to 
stand  forty  minutes  before  he  could  get  through  his 
business  and  leave. 

Then  he  went  out  with  a  rush,  jumped  into  the 
buggy  and  took  the  reins  from  the  negro  driver. 
The  street  and  sidewalks  were  crowded,  the  cable- 
cars  had  to  go  slowly  and  with  much  clanging  of 
gongs  through  the  concentrated  and  congested  busi 
ness  part  of  the  city.  In  many  places  in  this  small 
district  building  operations  further  obstructed  the 
way.  Frame  cottages  were  being  torn  down  to 
make  way  for  brick  office  buildings.  Another  new 
hotel  was  going  up.  The  city  was  making  enormous 
efforts  to  house  her  suddenly  increasing  business 
and  the  crowds  of  tourists  or  new  settlers  that  poured 
in  now  by  every  train.  And  she  was  happy  in  doing 
it.  The  joy  of  activity,  of  expansion,  was  perfectly 
visible  in  the  faces  of  the  crowd.  It  was  in  the  air 
itself;  and  that  air  on  a  perfect  October  morning, 
under  a  sky  as  blue  as  the  mountain  peaks  in  the  dis 
tance,  was  alone  a  reason  for  living. 

6 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Dan,  forced  to  hold  down  his  prancing  horses  till 
they  had  got  out  of  the  main  street,  narrowly  missed 
a  collision  with  a  cable-car;  then,  turning  off  at  the 
first  corner,  the  team  took  fright  at  the  sudden 
bursting  into  song  of  another  brass  band — not 
Dan's — and,  shying,  ran  past  the  band-wagon  and 
the  procession  following.  The  signs  on  the  'buses 
in  this  case  announced  a  sale  of  lots  out  on  the 
heights  toward  the  sea.  Dan  felt  a  qualm  of  anxiety. 
Those  people  in  the  'buses  were  so  many  possible 
investors  drawn  away  from  his  own  attraction. 
Still  it  was  a  slow  day  now  on  which  two  rival  brass 
bands  and  auctioneers  did  not  compete  for  the  crowd; 
and  the  crowd  was  generally  equal  to  two  such 
occasions. 

All  the  more,  however,  Dan  wished,  as  his  horses 
sped  along  a  less  busy  street,  that  he  could  put 
them  now  on  the  stretch  of  country  road  leading 
out  to  the  scene  of  his  auction.  But  that  was  quite 
hopeless.  He  drove  instead  to  the  synagogue  and 
entered  with  a  sigh.  It  seemed  an  unusual  waste  of 
time  to  go  to  church  on  a  fine  rushing  Saturday 
morning.  Apparently  a  good  many  other  business 
like  people  thought  so  too,  for  though  the  service 
had  begun  half  an  hour  before,  the  building  was  al 
most  empty. 

Dan  looked  about  him  with  some  interest,  noting 
unexpected  points  of  resemblance  to  the  ordinary 
church  as  he  remembered  it.  Surely  those  colored- 
glass  windows,  those  lines  of  straight-backed  red- 
cushioned  pews,  those  decorous  ushers  in  black,  were 
very  like  what  he  had  been  used  to  see.  Dan  had 
not  been  in  a  church  since  he  had  left  the  Illinois  home 

7 


THE  FORERUNNER 

of  his  boyhood,  but  those  early  impressions  were 
still  oddly  clear.  When  a  light-haired  man  in  frock- 
coat  and  white  tie  rose  from  his  seat  on  the  dais, 
came  forward  to  the  pulpit  and  began  to  read,  Dan 
could  imagine  himself  back  in  Mapleton.  This  per 
son  had  the  pompous  air  and  his  voice  had  the  nasal 
intonations  of  Dr.  Brewster,  the  old  Methodist  parson. 

Vaguely  Dan  had  looked  for  something  different, 
he  hardly  knew  what,  but  perhaps  more  in  the  line 
of  the  Chinese  joss-house,  which  was  his  sole  experi 
ence  of  an  alien  worship.  The  Jews  he  considered 
to  be  not  only  foreigners,  but  Orientals  also,  and  dis 
liked  them  as  such.  It  was  disconcerting  to  find 
them  behaving  like  Christians.  He  had  taken  a  seat 
near  the  door  in  order  to  be  able  to  get  out  easily,  and 
there  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  what  the  reader 
was  saying;  for,  though  his  voice  was  sonorous,  it 
had  a  curiously  muffled  quality.  Dan  had  just  de 
cided  that  he  was  speaking  English,  when  he  paused, 
and  from  the  screened  choir-loft  came  a  few  soft 
grumbling  organ-chords  and  then  a  long  minor 
phrase  sung  in  a  baritone  voice. 

Dan  looked  up,  and  listened  eagerly.  In  another 
moment  the  full  choir  joined  in  and  he  thought  he 
could  distinguish  Anna's  voice;  then  the  soprano 
had  a  phrase  alone  and  he  was  sure  of  it.  He  knew 
that  later  she  would  question  him  and  that  he  would 
be  obliged  to  produce  a  certain  number  of  ideas  about 
her  singing.  He  listened,  therefore,  devoutly.  But, 
as  it  happened,  music  never  inspired  Dan  with  any 
ideas  whatsoever,  except  such  as  he  might  get  from 
the  words  of  a  song  if  pronounced  very  distinctly; 
and  in  this  case,  if  the  choir  were  pronouncing  any 

8 


THE   FORERUNNER 

words  at  all,  they  concealed  the  fact.  However,  Dan 
got  other  things  from  music — a  number  of  emotions, 
namely,  and  a  vast  amount  of  sensuous  pleasure,  all 
of  which  might  be  inarticulate,  but  were  certainly 
very  real.  Amost  any  kind  of  music  would  serve 
him  thus,  excepting  always  the  purely  gymnastic 
sort,  though  the  simpler  it  was  the  better  he  liked  it. 
As  the  choir  went  on,  weaving  a  softly-blended, 
richly-colored  melancholy  strain,  the  cockles  of  his 
heart  began  to  warm.  His  face,  uplifted  in  the  di 
rection  that  the  music  came  from,  softened  and 
brightened  to  its  most  attractive  look. 

The  far-away  Irish  ancestor — his  station  was  lost 
in  the  mists  of  antiquity  or  of  obscurity — who  had 
given  Daniel  Devin  his  name  had  also  handed  down 
through  five  generations  of  New  Englanders  his 
main  physical  characteristics:  the  powerful,  rather 
stocky  build;  the  black  hair  which  would  curl  at  the 
ends  if  allowed  to  grow  a  little  longer;  the  blue  eyes, 
showing  race  and  temper;  the  sanguine  complexion 
and  square  chin  with  the  hint  of  a  cleft.  New  Eng 
land  environment  and  intermarrying  had,  in  fact,  left 
no  visible  impress  on  that  strong  original  mould,  yet 
Dan  was  not  to  be  mistaken  for  anything  but  an 
American  born  and  bred.  He  looked  excitable, 
emotional  enough,  to  belong  to  a  gayer  people.  It 
was  the  mouth,  perhaps,  that  marked  him  off  from 
them;  this  lacked  the  happy  curl  that  goes  with  a 
light  heart  and  an  irresponsible  head;  the  corners 
curved  down  instead  of  up. 

The  choir  ceased  suddenly,  the  reader  again  took 
up  his  mysterious  theme,  and  Dan  fell  from  a  vague 
bright  region  of  mid-air  to  earth.  People  had  kept 

9 


THE   FORERUNNER 

coining  in  by  twos  and  threes,  and  the  swinging 
doors  at  the  back  now  creaked  almost  continuously. 
Yet  the  expanse  of  pews  still  looked  vacant.  Dan 
had  inevitably  some  business  acquaintance  among 
the  Jews  of  the  city,  and  he  now  recognized  one  of 
them — Julius  Kahn,  a  lawyer — in  the  stout,  spec 
tacled  gentleman  who  passed  him  and,  followed  by 
a  lady  in  black  satin,  proceeded  up  the  aisle.  Men 
and  women  sat  together,  and  the  men  did  not  wear 
their  hats,  as  Dan  had  a  faint  notion  they  would. 
Most  of  the  women  were  dressed  in  black,  but  richly, 
with  silks  and  plumes.  There  were,  in  fact,  no  poor- 
looking  people  in  the  place.  Dan,  who,  as  has  been 
said,  disliked  all  foreigners,  and  who  considered  a 
Jew  as  much  a  foreigner  as  a  Chinaman  (the  lowest 
of  created  things),  looked  the  audience  over,  noting 
the  peculiarities  he  especially  disliked.  In  return 
for  his  glances,  some,  rather  cold  and  unfriendly, 
were  cast  at  him;  but  he  was  not  disturbed  in  the 
least,  having  been  assured  by  Anna  that  there  would 
be  no  expressed  objection  to  his  presence. 

The  choir  sang  again,  the  audience  rising,  and  Dan 
rose  too.  Again  Anna's  voice  rang  out  alone — a 
full,  robust  soprano,  with  depth  in  the  lower  register, 
and  a  hint  of  stridency  in  the  upper — with  dramatic 
intention  rather  than  feeling — clear,  true  and  fresh, 
rather  than  sweet.  The  things  that  Dan  liked  best 
in  her  singing  did  not  come  out  in  this  church  music. 
Yet  he  was  irritated  when  it  stopped  as  abruptly  as 
before  and  the  audience  sat  down.  Quite  evidently 
the  music  was  designed  to  be  simply  an  accompani 
ment  to  the  locution  of  the  blond  official.  Dan 
began  to  feel  bored.  His  thoughts  went  far  afield, 

10 


THE  FORERUNNER 

while  occasionally  a  traditional  name  fell  upon  his 
ear — " Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob,"  or  something 
about  "Israel";  and  his  eyes  wandered  over  the 
reader's  desk  to  the  red  velvet  chairs  in  semicircle 
behind  it,  three  on  either  side  of  a  gilded  grating  sur 
mounted  by  an  inscription  in  strange  lettering  (Dan 
thought  it  resembled  Chinese)  and  an  arch  of  gas 
lights.  The  man  at  the  desk  read  a  prayer  begin 
ning  "Our  Heavenly  Father";  then  a  beautiful  alto 
voice,  beginning  softly,  sang  a  plaintive  recitative. 

The  first  notes  thrilled  Dan.  The  voice  had  the 
emotional  quality  which  was  what  he  cared  for  in 
music;  it  had  sweetness  and  depth,  and  a  kind  of 
tender  solemnity.  In  just  those  tones,  he  thought, 
had  his  mother  been  used  to  sing,  when  he  was  a  child, 
in  the  church  choir  at  Mapleton.  Dan  had  not 
thought  of  his  mother  for  a  good  many  days;  he 
made  a  mental  memorandum  to  write  to  her.  Sud 
denly  he  realized  that  he  had  news  to  give  that  would 
be  important  to  her — she  had  no  idea  that  he  was 
going  to  be  married.  But  then  Dan  himself  had  not 
known  it  a  week  ago. 

Anna  was  singing  again  now,  her  voice  dominating 
the  others  with  crystal  clearness;  but  Dan  began  to 
be  restless.  He  saw  that  people  were  still  coming 
in;  obviously  there  was  a  good  deal  more  to  hap 
pen.  A  family  procession  up  his  aisle  interested  him 
unexpectedly.  The  two  men  he  knew,  in  a  business 
way.  The  leader,  short  and  stout,  with  slightly 
bowed  shoulders  and  thick  gray  hair,  was  Abram 
de  Ronde,  one  of  the  best  known  and  least  liked 
citizens  of  the  place.  He  was  a  banker,  reputed 
to  be  a  millionnaire  even  before  the  days  of  the 

11 


THE   FORERUNNER 

boom;  and  now  when  every  tenth  man  was  a 
millionnaire  —  on  paper — he  still  had  a  solid  pre 
eminence.  De  Ronde  did  not  speculate;  but  his 
bank  lent  money,  at  high  interest  and  on  ample  secu 
rity,  to  those  who  did.  He  was  known  to  be  not  only 
very  conservative,  but  also  as  hard  as  nails  in  all  busi 
ness  transactions — two  qualities  apt  to  be  unpopular 
in  a  new  country,  and  sure  to  be  so  at  a  time,  like  this, 
of  generous  expansion  and  general  confidence.  More 
over,  De  Ronde  was  an  aristocrat.  His  fortune  had 
its  beginning,  not  in  a  New  York  peddler's  pack,  but 
in  a  Portuguese  goldsmith-money-lender's  shop,  seven 
generations  back.  He  had  traditions  to  maintain; 
his  generosity  to  his  own  race  and  reserve  to  all  others 
were  points  of  honor  with  him.  All  that  Daniel  Devin 
knew  of  him,  however,  was  that  he  was  a  grasping  old 
skinflint,  and  that  he,  Dan,  owed  him  a  great  deal  of 
money,  for  which  he  was  paying  fifteen  per  cent  inter 
est.  De  Ronde's  son,  Abram  the  second,  who  fol 
lowed  him,  was  popularly  considered  a  chip  of  the  old 
block.  He  was  a  handsome  youth,  slightly  built, 
with  a  pale,  rather  melancholy  face.  These  at 
tractions  were  shared  by  the  two  young  girls  who 
came  next,  Mrs.  De  Ronde  bringing  up  the  rear.  It 
was  easy  to  see  how  the  children  came  by  their  good 
looks.  The  mother  was  still  beautiful,  though  not 
quite  escaping  the  bane  of  the  women  of  her  race; 
tall,  with  a  fine  stately  carriage  of  the  head,  and  a 
profile  of  clear  distinction.  Daniel,  who  was  exceed 
ingly  susceptible  to  feminine  charm,  moved  to  the 
end  of  his  pew  and  watched  them  into  their  seats. 
The  two  girls  were  beautifully  slender  and  graceful; 
in  them  the  Oriental  was  undoubtedly  highly  pleas- 

12 


THE  FORERUNNER 

ing.  But  it  has  been  observed  that  even  the  most 
stalwart  patriot  and  disliker  of  foreigners  will  make 
an  occasional  feminine  exception.  Dan  saw  that  be 
fore  De  Ronde  sat  down  he  turned  and  glanced  down 
the  aisle.  He  guessed  that  the  banker  had  recog 
nized  him  and  was  displeased  by  his  presence.  It 
was  too  far  away  to  make  sure,  but  he  guessed  also 
that  De  Ronde' s  light-gray  eyes  had  the  peculiar 
fishy  look  that  he,  Daniel,  abominated.  During  their 
brief  business  interviews  Dan  never  looked  the  banker 
in  the  eye  if  he  could  help  it;  and  whenever  he  was 
obliged  to  do  so  he  received  a  renewed  impression  of 
the  look  of  a  fish — a  dead  fish,  as  he  put  it  to  himself. 

But  all  these  impressions  —  De  Ronde  and  his 
women,  the  singing,  even  the  idea  of  Anna  herself — 
were  like  eddies  along  the  margin  of  a  swift  stream, 
or  like  ripples  on  its  surface.  The  main  current  of 
Dan's  thought  concerned  that  business  transaction  in 
which  he  had  risked  every  dollar  he  owned  or  could 
borrow,  and  the  success  or  failure  of  which  the  events 
of  the  day  would  largely  determine. 

Dan  counted  surely  upon  success.  He  would  not 
admit  a  doubt.  Yet  something  of  the  gambler's 
fever  was  burning  in  his  veins.  He  had  not  slept 
three  hours  the  night  before;  but  it  would  take  more 
than  one  night's  restless  pillow-punching  to  dull  his 
eyes  or  pale  his  ruddy  skin.  He  looked  perfectly  fit; 
and  sitting  quietly  with  folded  arms  he  looked  per 
fectly  calm,  too,  though  in  reality  his  nerves  were 
en  edge. 

He  now  wanted  fervently  to  bolt;  and  wondered 
whether  Anna  could  see  him  from  behind  the  crimson 
curtains  that  hid  her.  He  would  have  to  wait  for  her 

13 


THE   FORERUNNER 

outside;  but  outside  were  his  horses  and  the  clear, 
bright  October  air  to  move  about  in.  He  felt  that 
he  couldn't  sit  still  much  longer,  singing  or  no  singing. 

A  momentary  flicker  of  interest  woke  when  the 
three  men  up  in  front  opened  the  gilt  grating,  took 
out  the  middle  one  of  three  indefinite  red-and-gold 
objects  behind  it,  and,  coming  forward  to  the  desk 
again,  performed  some  incantations  over  it  in  a 
heathen  tongue,  and  then  kissed  the  object  devoutly. 
Dan  was  again  irresistibly  reminded  of  his  sole  com 
parison,  the  joss-house,  and  of  the  singsong  jargon 
of  the  despised  Chinaman.  De  Ronde  was  a  heathen, 
after  all — in  spite  of  his  air  of  dignity  not  really  much 
superior,  in  point  of  light,  to  a  miserable  Chink!  It 
was,  Dan  puritanically  considered,  just  as  degrading 
to  kiss  an  object  in  a  red  velvet  cover  as  to  throw 
paper  pellets  at  the  Joss. 

He  sighed  deeply.  There  was  more  singing  and 
reading,  and  then  the  joss — or  whatever  it  was — 
was  again  imprisoned  behind  its  grating.  Then  be 
gan  a  sermon.  This  was  decidedly  more  than  Dan 
had  bargained  for.  He  had  not  the  least  desire  to 
hear  about  Moses  from  an  elderly  man  with  an  ex 
ecrable  accent  and  delivery.  His  skin  began  to 
prickle  and  chills  ran  up  and  down  his  legs — exactly 
as  in  the  church-going  days  of  his  boyhood.  To 
complete  his  discomfort  a  woman  came  in  and  took  a 
seat  directly  behind  him,  rustling  in  silk  upon  silk. 
She  was  stout;  he  could  tell  from  the  way  she  sat 
down.  She  took  off  a  wrap  that  rustled  fearfully; 
crossed  her  knees,  first  one  way  and  then  another, 
with  the  peculiar  scraping  of  stiff  silk  linings.  Then 
she  pulled  up  her  skirt  and  apparently  dived  into  a 

14 


THE   FORERUNNER 

pocket  in  her  petticoat.  Her  handkerchief  shook 
out  a  generous  odor.  Dan  liked  some  strong  per 
fumes,  but  not  musk.  Repulsion  overcame  the  feel 
ing,  inherited  from  his  boyhood,  that  it  was  criminal 
from  a  churchly  point  of  view  to  leave  during  service, 
and  especially  in  the  course  of  the  sermon.  Dan, 
naturally  courteous,  disliked  to  offend  these  people, 
but — the  musk  was  really  too  much.  He  rose  and 
went  out  hurriedly,  noting  that  she  was  atrociously 
fat  and  wore  one  of  those  shiny  bonnets  that  elderly 
women  affect. 

Outside,  the  air  and  sunlight  were  more  than  ever 
glorious.  Rain  had  fallen  the  night  before,  and  the 
dust  of  the  streets  was  beaten  down.  The  pepper- 
trees  across  the  way  swept  their  long,  drooping 
leaves  in  the  light  breeze,  fresh  as  a  beauty  after  the 
bath;  and  in  the  little  yards  of  the  cottages  beyond 
the  heliotropes  and  rose-bushes  were  covered  with 
new  blossoms. 

The  horses  were  not  in  sight.  Dan  walked  up  and 
down  the  block.  Going  south  he  looked  vaguely  for 
the  team.  Going  north  he  looked  up  at  the  great 
mountain  chain  twenty  miles  away  shining  in  the 
sun  with  metallic  purple  and  bronze  lights,  the 
farthest  peak  white  with  snow.  Dan  had  been  eight 
years  in  California,  but  he  still  looked  at  the  moun 
tains,  even  though,  as  now,  he  might  be  thinking  of 
something  else.  He  walked  slowly,  with  his  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets,  jingling  the  loose 
gold  and  silver  pieces.  He  was  well  dressed  in  brown 
tweeds  not  particularly  new,  and  wore  a  light  felt  hat 
with  a  brim  no  wider  than  might  be  worn  in  New 
York.  An  objection  might  perhaps  lie  against  his 

15 


THE  FORERUNNER 

red  neck-scarf.  But  any  person  so  intolerant  of  flam- 
boy  ancy  as  to  dislike  a  red  tie  would  certainly  find 
many  other  things  to  dislike  about  Daniel  Devin. 

Presently  his  horses  came  trotting  in  a  wide,  lei 
surely  sweep  round  the  corner.  They  were  "high- 
steppers,"  a  well-matched  pair  of  bays  curried  to  per 
fection.  As  they  tossed  their  uncurbed  heads  there 
was  a  spirited  jingle  of  silver  chains.  The  buggy 
they  drew  was  new  and  handsome.  The  colored 
groom,  attached  to  the  stable  where  Dan  boarded 
his  horses,  but  practically  in  Dan's  employ,  pulled 
the  team  up  at  the  curb  with  a  flourish,  and  started 
to  get  out.  Dan  looked  at  his  watch.  "A  quarter  of 
an  hour  yet,"  he  said  resignedly;  and  getting  into  the 
buggy  he  took  a  note-book  and  pencil  from  his  pocket 
and  began  to  work  at  some  figures.  The  team,  how 
ever,  was  loath  to  stand. 

"They're  pretty  fresh,"  the  groom  suggested, 
"not  bein'  out  at  all  yestiddy,  you  see,  suh." 

"All  right,  let  'em  go— drive  round  the  block,"  said 
Dan,  absorbed  in  his  arithmetical  exercises.  So  in 
teresting,  in  fact,  were  these  that  he  was  driven  un 
heeding  round  not  one  but  several  blocks,  and  only 
came  back  to  himself  at  a  sudden  halt  to  see  Anna 
standing  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  synagogue 
and  looking  reproachfully  at  him.  He  sprang  out 
and  managed  to  explain  before  her  sense  of  injury 
found  voice.  She  then  consented  to  smile.  Dan 
helped  her  into  the  buggy,  took  the  driver's  seat 
and  the  reins,  tossed  the  colored  man  a  dollar,  and 
they  were  off. 

"Thank  heaven,"  he  breathed  involuntarily.  "I 
thought  you  would  never  come." 

16 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"You  didn't  seem  to  be  looking  for  me  very  hard 
when  you  came  up/'  Anna  said,  laughing.  Her 
speaking  voice  had  the  freshness  and  decision  of  her 
"dramatic  soprano."  If  it  were  not  good-humored 
it  would  certainly  be  sharp. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  for  an  hour  and  a 
half." 

"Then  you  didn't  like  the  singing?  I  thought  you 
liked  to  hear  me  sing." 

"So  I  do.  But  think  of  the  other  things  I  had  to 
sit  through.  I  haven't  been  to  church  for — I  guess 
ten  years." 

"Then  it's  time  you  went.  Your  soul  must  be  in 
danger." 

"Well,  it  won't  be  saved  by  this  morning's  experi 
ence.  I'd  hate  to  be  saved  in  De  Ronde's  company, 
anyhow.  Almost  rather  go  to  the  other  place." 

Anna  laughed.  "I'm  glad  you're  not  religious," 
she  said  confidentially,  though  it  was  not  the  first 
time  she  had  said  it. 

"Why?  So  you  can  convert  me  to  your  own  par 
ticular  brand?" 

"No — you  know  why.  I've  had  so  much  of  it.  I 
never  want  to  go  to  church  after— afterward." 

"Well,  begin  now  by  not  singing  there  any  more. 
Honestly,  I  wish  you  would." 

"Why?  That's  different  from  what  I  mean.  I 
like  to  sing  in  a  big  place,  and  I  like  church  music. 
Didn't  you  think  my  voice  came  out  well?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  why  should  you  sing  for  De  Ronde 
and  that  crowd?  I  don't  like  it." 

"Why,  you  silly  boy,  I  sing  there  because  I  can 
get  money  for  it,  I've  earned  all  my  own  clothes 

17 


THE   FORERUNNER 

and  pocket  money  for  a  year,  as  well  as  my  lessons 
— shouldn't  have  had  any  if  I  hadn't." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  that  isn't  necessary  any  longer. 
So  give  it  up,  will  you  please— dearest?" 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?  Why  should  you  care 
who  hears  me  sing?  How  funny  men  are!  Perhaps 
you'd  like  me  not  to  sing  to  anybody  but  you?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  would— oh,  no,  I  wouldn't  mind  if 
it  was  in  your  own  house,  you  know.  But  what  I 
like  best  is  to  be  alone  when  you  sing." 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  that.  But  surely  you  don't 
object  to  concerts,  do  you?  I  mean  you  wouldn't 
mind  my  singing  in  public  occasionally?" 

"Yes,  I  should,"  said  Dan  very  decidedly. 

Anna  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  well,  very  likely  I  sha'n't  want  to,"  she  said 
carelessly. 

She  looked  away  at  the  citrus  hedge  and  walnut 
plantation  spinning  by  on  the  left,  apparently  as 
composed  and  good-humored  as  before.  Inwardly, 
however,  she  was  adjusting  herself  to  a  slight  shock. 
This  subject,  important  to  her,  had  not  come  up  for 
discussion  with  Dan  before.  But  there  were  so  many 
things  they  had  not  talked  over!  Had  Dan  views 
as  decisive  about  all  those  other  things?  She  felt 
a  momentary  qualm,  but  it  was  only  momentary. 
Dan  was  very  much  in  love.  Whatever  his  words 
might  say,  his  every  tone  and  look  spoke  the  lover, 
and  proclaimed  Anna's  power  over  him.  She  took 
courage.  If  men  are  not  to  be  ruled  by  beauty,  what 
is  the  use  of  anything?  In  reality  she  had  as  much 
confidence  in  her  own  untried  strength  as  Dan  had  in 
his.  But  hers  was  to  be  exercised  on  Dan;  while  he 

IS 


THE   FORERUNNER 

meant  to  do  something  big,  in  order  that  Anna  might 
have  everything  she  wanted.  To  be  sure,  he  had 
meant  to  make  a  fortune  before  ever  he  saw  Anna. 
But  now  there  was  an  infinitely  stronger  reason  for 
doing  so.  Anna  was  the  sort  of  woman,  he  fondly 
thought,  to  be  set  off  by  magnificence. 

Dan  liked  what  he  called  style,  in  women  as  in 
horses.  He  meant  physical  perfection,  conscious  of 
itself.  He  liked  to  see  a  horse  prance  and  curvet. 
He  liked  to  see  a  woman  carry  herself  in  such  a  way 
as  to  challenge  attention  to  her  points.  Of  course, 
both  the  horse  and  the  woman  must  have  the  points. 
Anna  had  them  in  abundance.  She  was  very  young, 
but  unmistakably  already  "a  fine  woman."  The 
generous  country  of  her  birth  has  this  faculty  of 
forcing  a  quick,  full  maturity,  and  Anna's  type  is  not 
uncommon  there.  At  eighteen  she  had  the  figure  of 
a  well-cared-for  woman  of  thirty.  She  was  tall — a 
little  taller  than  Dan — and  stately  as  the  young 
palm-tree  whose  straight  woody  stem  is  a  trifle  too 
rigid  for  grace.  Her  main  beauty  was  her  coloring. 
She  was  a  tawny  blonde,  with  very  dark  eyes.  She 
wore  her  light  hair  curled  low  on  her  forehead,  and 
at  a  little  distance  the  contrast  was  almost  too  ef 
fective — a  little  theatrical.  It  was  only  on  a  near 
approach  that  one  could  see  how  the  brown  tones  of 
her  rosy  skin  blended  the  eyes  and  hair  into  harmony. 
Anna  sometimes  wished  that  her  dark  eyelashes  had 
been  longer,  or  that  her  straight  eyebrows  had  been 
thicker  and  continued  in  a  graceful  curve  instead 
of  ending  abruptly  short  of  the  corner  of  the  eye. 
Otherwise  she  was  very  well  satisfied  with  herself;  and 
her  general  expression  said  as  much.  Very  handsome 

19 


THE  FORERUNNER 

she  was  certainly;  healthy,  good-humored;  a  woman 
to  attract  attention  and  admiration  wherever  she 
might  be.  Dan  would  be  envied,  and  he  thought 
himself  most  enviable.  To  him  Anna  was  the  ideal 
woman;  and  he  was  not  the  person  to  miss  anything 
because  she  was  already  a  woman  when  he  wooed 
her.  He  thought  often  of  the  future,  but  never  with 
apprehension.  That  Anna  was  already  in  her  prime, 
and  could  scarcely  be  imagined  to  change  for  the  bet 
ter,  suggested  no  regret  to  him.  That  she  missed 
the  typical  charm  of  youth,  the  promise  that  lies  in 
its  meagreness,  softness  and  lack  of  form,  had  never 
occurred  to  Dan.  In  fact,  though  Anna  was  so  much 
in  his  mind,  he  did  not  definitely  think  much  about 
her. 

The  bays  were  making  fast  time  over  the  sandy 
road  between  orchards  of  orange  or  lemon  trees,  or 
rows  of  poplars  and  eucalyptus,  but  not  fast  enough 
for  Dan.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and  urged  them  on, 
as  they  passed  "Keyser's  place,"  which  was  half-way 
to  their  destination.  Keyser's  was  one  of  the  oldest 
ranches  in  the  district;  its  avenue  of  pepper- trees 
had  been  twenty  years  growing,  and  it  boasted  an 
orange  orchard  and  vineyard  as  old.  Part  of  the 
establishment  was  a  winery,  where  Dan  had  sent  his 
own  grapes,  during  his  brief  experience  as  a  fruit 
grower.  He  pointed  out  to  Anna  the  roof  of  the 
winery  as  they  sped  by. 

"Oh,  I  know  that  place,"  she  said.  "We  had  a 
church  picnic  near  here  once.  They  were  crushing 
the  grapes  then,  and  you  could  smell  them  about 
half  a  mile  away.  It  made  some  of  us  dizzy.  Not 
just  the  place  for  a  church  affair,  was  it!" 

20 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Talk  became  more  difficult  as  the  team's  speed  in 
creased.  The  clots  of  sand  flew  still  thicker  from 
their  flashing  hoofs,  and  Anna  drew  up  the  lap-robe 
to  protect  her  gray  silk,  the  best  dress  she  had,  though 
an  unbecoming  one. 

"It  will  be  past  noon  by  the  time  we  get  there," 
Dan  said  rather  anxiously. 

"Couldn't  they  have  waited  for  us?" 

"Hardly.  The  auction  was  advertised  for  eleven, 
you  see,  and — well,  the  crowd  mightn't  have  stayed." 

"Oh,  I  hope  they  haven't  gone  yet — I've  never 
seen  an  auction.  Don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Dan  said  grimly. 

Anna  had  no  idea  of  the  importance  of  that  crowd 
to  Dan,  no  idea  that  the  auction  involved  anything 
serious;  naturally  enough,  since  Dan  had  painted  the 
situation  to  her  in  the  brilliant  colors  in  which  he  nor 
mally  saw  it.  Anna  thought  she  was  simply  going 
to  be  a  witness  of  her  lover's  success.  If  this  auction 
of  Dan's  land  sold  to  the  amount  he  expected,  he 
would  make  six  times  the  money  he  had  put  into  it 
a  month  ago ;  so  much  she  knew.  There  was  an  ele 
ment  of  risk  about  which  she  knew  nothing;  but  this 
risk  was  less  than  it  would  have  been  in  any  other 
than  the  extraordinary  conditions  then  prevailing. 
Dan  was  not  alarmed,  but  his  nerves  were  tense. 
He  took  out  his  whip,  almost  never  used,  and  slashed 
the  off-horse  sharply;  the  horse  reared  and  the  team 
broke  into  a  run.  It  took  all  the  strength  of  Dan's 
brown  hands  to  bring  them  down  again,  but  he  was 
glad  of  the  exertion.  Anna  was  silent,  protecting  her 
face  as  well  as  she  could  and  holding  her  broad  white 
hat  on;  they  brought  up  with  a  whirl  at  the  turning 

21 


THE  FORERUNNER 

which  led  through'  a  wide  gap  in  the  cypress  hedge 
and  over  a  zanja  bridged  with  planking  into  the 
ranch. 

The  driveway  was  a  good  deal  marked  up  by  fresh 
wheel- tracks  and  hoof-prints,  and  Dan  noted  the  fa 
vorable  sign. 

To  the  right  was  the  low  gray  house,  a  scanty  lawn 
set  with  large  rose-bushes  separating  it  from  the 
road.  Dan  looked  sharply  at  the  windows  as  he 
drove  past  them,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  any  mem 
ber  of  the  Emmons  family  either  about  the  house  or 
in  the  "backyard" — a  stretch  of  hard-beaten  ground 
under  a  large  pepper-tree  which  was  the  children's 
playground. 

To  the  left  the  orange  orchard  stretched  away 
in  even  rows.  At  this  season  of  vernal  revival  after 
the  first  rains  the  ranch  should  have  been  at  its  best, 
but  instead  it  showed  plainly  the  effects  of  neglect. 
The  owner  had  spared  the  trouble  of  ploughing  and 
irrigating  during  the  last  half  of  the  dry  season.  The 
fall  pruning  had  not  been  done  and  the  citrus-trees 
and  hedges  were  straggling  out  of  shape,  while  the 
grape-vines  beyond  were  covered  with  long  waste 
shoots.  Weeds  speckled  the  ground  all  the  way  from 
the  first  rows  of  English  walnut-trees  through  the  or 
chard  and  the  vineyard,  and  grew  almost  visibly  in 
the  hot  sun.  And  the  trails  of  the  busy  gopher 
were  everywhere,  long  runs  above  the  surface  show 
ing  where  he  had  bored  below  from  the  roots  of  one 
orange-tree  to  another. 

These  trees,  ten  years  old  and  in  full  bearing,  were 
heavy  with  fruit  just  beginning  to  turn,  but  doomed 
to  wither  and  rot  uselessly.  And  the  reason  was  ap- 

22 


THE  FORERUNNER 

parent  in  a  plentiful  crop  of  white  stakes  set  at  regular 
intervals  among  them;  and  in  the  gathering  of  ve 
hicles  which  extended  from  the  tank-house  to  the 
barn,  and  the  men  densely  packed  about  the  auction 
eer's  stand  under  a  great  live-oak  tree.  Dan  drew  a 
deep  breath  of  relief.  With  a  crowd  like  that — bigger 
than  he  had  dared  to  expect— success  was  practically 
sure. 


23 


n. 

TTE  drove  round  the  circle,  going  out  into  the 
-*--•-  orchard  to  pass  it,  and  drew  up  under  the 
farther  oak-tree,  where  the  caterer  and  his  assist 
ants  were  setting  out  the  lunch  on  long  tables 
made  of  planks  and  trestles.  A  brief  conference 
satisfied  Dan  that  there  would  be  enough  food  to  go 
round,  and  he  was  then  free  to  listen  to  the  orotund 
voice  of  Mr.  Stoneman,  who,  leaning  over  the  stand, 
with  his  silk  hat  tipped  a  little  back  on  his  head, 
was  apparently  on  the  best  possible  terms  with  him 
self  and  his  audience. 

'Two  hundred  and  fifty,"  he  was  saying.  "If  you 
want  that  lot,  Mr.  Feltner,  you  can  do  a  little  better 
than  that.  Two-fifty — two-fifty, — why,  gentlemen, 
the  owner  of  this  lot  can  go  back  to  town  and  sell  it 
this  afternoon  for  probably  double  that  price.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  You  know  that  people 
are  standing  in  line  all  night  to  get  a  chance  to  pay 
down  their  money  for  land  not  half  so  good.  Two- 
seventy-five — thank  you,  Mr.  Feltner " 

"Three  hundred,"  said  an  anxious  man  in  the  front 
rank. 

"Three  hundred — this  lot,  as  you  see,  has  a  frontage 
of  fifty  feet  on  what  will  be  one  of  the  main  streets  of 
this  fine  suburb.  You  know,  gentlemen,  what  city 
lots  are  selling  for  now — you  know  how  soon  a  city 
like  ours  swallows  up  its  suburbs — like  ah,  ha — Minos 

24 


THE  FORERUNNER 

devouring  his  own  children — three  hundred  dollars 
— three  hundred — really  I  hate  to  see  a  chance  like 
this  going  so  easily.  It  looks  as  though  I  hadn't 
made  things  clear  to  you.  Three  hundred — three 
hundred — going,  going — sold  at  three  hundred  dollars 
to  Mr.  Bragg." 

The  gavel  fell. 

Mr.  Stoneman  turned  and  bowed  to  Dan,  removing 
his  tall  hat  for  a  moment,  and  motioned  his  assistant 
to  turn  the  large  cloth  map  of  the  property  round. 
A  glance  showed  Dan  a  very  encouraging  proportion 
of  squares  marked  with  the  pencil  cross  which  meant 
"sold."  He  smiled  and  nodded  carelessly. 

"I  don't  think  we'd  better  get  out,"  he  said  to 
Anna;  "the  team  won't  stand." 

"This  is  very  nice,"  she  said.  "But  I  thought 
there'd  be  more  excitement!" 

Dan  shook  his  head,  smiling.  He  was  listening  to 
the  bidding.  Several  men  wanted  the  next  lot  of 
fered.  The  auctioneer  ran  the  price  up  to  four  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars,  and  the  successful  bidder  took 
the  two  inside  lots  at  the  same  price.  Dan  might 
have  said  with  justice  that  there  was  no  need  of  a 
brass  band,  or  of  "cappers"  to  stimulate  enthusiasm, 
with  a  crowd  in  such  a  temper  as  this  transaction 
showed.  While  the  assistant  was  marking  the  cor 
responding  squares  on  the  map,  Mr.  Stoneman  stepped 
down  from  his  stand  and  came  over  to  Dan's  side  of 
the  carriage. 

"Going  pretty  well,"  said  Dan. 

"I  should  say  so.     Look  at  this,  Mr.  Devin." 

He  handed  Dan  a  memorandum  of  prices  and 
buyers. 

25 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"  Miss  Quartermain,  this  is  Mr.  Stoneman,  the  best 
auctioneer  in  the  country/7  said  Dan. 

Anna  smiled,  and  Mr.  Stoneman,  snatching  off  his 
hat,  made  a  deep  if  not  very  graceful  bow. 

"Most  happy  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure,"  he  mur 
mured.  "I  suppose,  Miss,  this  is  not  your  first  ex 
perience  of  a  land-sale." 

"Yes,  the  first,"  Anna  said. 

"Well,  some  day  when  you  drive  through  this  sec 
tion  and  see  it  covered  with  brick  buildings  and  dwell 
ing-houses,  with  cable-cars  running  through  what 
are  now  only  strips  of  red  gravel  road,  it  will  doubt 
less  interest  you  to  recollect  that  you  saw  it  when  it 
bore  only  orange- trees  and  grape-vines." 

"Do  you  think  this  will  be  a  part  of  the  city?" 
she  inquired  incredulously.  "Why,  it's  three  miles 
away." 

"And  what  are  three  miles  to  a  city  growing  at  the 
rate  of  ours?  Why,  Miss,  the  city  limits  are  but  one 
mile  north  of  us  now,  and  I  predict  that  in  a  term  of 
five,  or  perhaps  four  or  three  years,  this  district  will 
be  entirely  built  up.  It  will  then  be  worth  per  acre 
a  hundred  times  what  these  enterprising  gentlemen 
have  paid  for  it  to-day." 

"Right  you  are,  Mr.  Stoneman,"  said  Daniel 
gravely,  as  he  handed  back  the  memorandum. 
"They're  getting  it  dirt-cheap,  considering.  How 
ever,  we  may  as  well  let  them  have  a  little  more, 
since  they  want  it." 

The  auctioneer  bowed  himself  off,  and  went  back 
to  his  chair;  and  another  parcel  of  land  was  put  up 
and  speedily  bid  off. 

"Is  it  interesting?"  Dan  asked,  smiling.  He  took 
26 


THE   FORERUNNER 

off  his  hat  and  leaned  back  in  the  seat,  the  reins 
drooping  from  his  right  hand.  He  was  at  ease  now 
and  elate.  Anna  had  finished  brushing  stray  grains 
of  sand  from  her  dress  and  adjusting  her  hat.  She 
glanced  over  the  crowd,  prosperous,  well-dressed 
and  cheerful,  calmly  encountering  the  gaze  of  a  good 
part  of  it. 

"Yes,  rather.  I  don't  see  anybody  I  know.  Do 
you?" 

"Yes;  about  half  of  them.  The  others  are  East 
erners,  I  reckon,  that  got  into  town  yesterday  or  the 
day  before.  They'll  expect  to  sell  out  next  month, 
and  go  home,  with  enough  profit  to  pay  their  ex 
penses;  that  is,  the  tourists  do.  There  are  plenty 
of  them  that  will  stay  with  the  game,  though." 

"It  seems  like  an  easy  way  to  make  money,"  Anna 
sighed. 

"Well,  it  ought  to  be  easy  to  make  money  with  a 
country  like  this.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  get  in 
line." 

"We  never  thought  the  country  was  so  wonderful 
till  the  Easterners  discovered  it,"  she  said.  "I  al 
ways  thought  Los  Angeles  was  a  pretty  poky  place. 
It's  lucky  for  us  that  the  boom  happened  along!" 

"It  didn't  happen  along,"  Dan  corrected  her.  "It 
was  bound  to  come.  Why,  this  place  has  just  begun 
to  grow.  It's  going  to  be  one  of  the  richest  cities  in 
the  United  States." 

He  had  a  quietly  emphatic  way  of  making  such  a 
statement,  an  air  of  having  inside  information  on 
the  subject,  and  of  being  able  to  back  it  up  with  un 
limited  details,  that  usually  conveyed  something  of 
his  own  confidence  even  to  the  masculine  hearer. 

27 


THE   FORERUNNER 

As  for  Anna,  she  wanted  nothing  better  than  to  be 
lieve  him.  And  she  was  dazzled  by  this  very  air  of 
his,  by  his  buoyant  energy  and  easy  assumption  of 
success  as  natural  and  inevitable.  It  was  to  this 
essentially  masculine  strength,  as  she  thought  it, 
that  she  had  gladly  yielded.  Anna  had  been  used 
to  regard  herself  as  the  one  bright  spot  in  a  dull, 
monotonous  world.  But  Dan  was  as  brilliant  in  his 
way  as  she  in  hers.  There  were  no  low  tones  about 
him.  She  was  proud  of  him.  She  liked  his  striking 
appearance,  his  good  clothes,  above  all  his  look  of 
competence  and  of  being  equal  to  any  situation. 
And  she  knew  exactly  why  she  liked  him;  knew  that 
it  was  the  feeling  of  his  power  and  effectiveness 
that  attracted  her.  Certainly  the  desirable  husband 
must  have  that  easy  superiority  to  circumstances. 
But,  after  all,  there  was  more  than  this  in  the  mind 
of  the  maiden  of  eighteen.  Even  though  that  mental 
atmosphere  was  clear  and  dry  like  the  air  above  a 
desert,  there  hung  a  blue  haze  on  its  horizon.  There 
was  the  unknown;  and  in  spite  of  herself  she  felt  its 
mystery.  When  she  thought  about  Dan,  away  from 
him,  she  was  clear  enough;  but  when  she  was  near 
him  she  was  sometimes  rather  tremulous.  Dan 
thought  those  occasional  quavers  and  blushes  de 
licious;  but  if  he  took  them  for  signs  of  a  ready  re 
sponse  to  his  own  emotion  he  was  mistaken.  Anna 
was  not  loving;  if  she  was  to  love  she  must  be  won 
as  slowly  and  patiently  as  the  desert  itself  is  won  to 
fertility.  But  who  is  to  guess  at  such  a  necessity 
looking  upon  a  beautiful  young  creature,  of  the  most 
utterly  feminine  mould,  who  seems  created  only  to 
charm?  Certainly  not  a  lover  like  Dan. 

28 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Taking  advantage  of  the  fact  that  his  broad  shoul 
der  partly  screened  Anna  from  observation,  Dan  laid 
his  hand  on  hers;  she,  with  a  prompt  feeling  for  pro 
priety,  evaded  the  caress,  but  with  a  smile  and  blush 
that  made  amends. 

"Don't,  they  can  see.  I  suppose  they  wonder 
who  on  earth  I  am,  anyway." 

"Let  them  wonder.  I'm  glad  to  have  them  see 
you.  You're  looking  lovely — not  that  that's  any 
thing  unusual,  though." 

"But  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  like  other  people  to 
look  at  me,  Mr.  Bluebeard!  What's  the  difference 
between  that  and  hearing  me  sing?" 

"Well,  there  is  a  difference.  Of  course  you  can't 
help  people  looking  at  you,  any  more  than  the  sun 
can!  But  when  you  sing  to  them,  well,  it  seems  as 
though  you  were  giving  them  something,  some  part  of 
yourself — that's  the  way  I  feel." 

"Well,  7  don't  feel  that  way,  not  in  the  least.  And 
I  ought  to  know,  don't  you  think  so?  But  let's  not 
quarrel  about  that  now.  How  much  longer  will 
this  last?" 

"Why,  you're  not  tired  already,  are  you?  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  see  how  we're  making  our  fort 


une." 


"Oh,  I  do,  of  course.  But  as  long  as  we  are  mak 
ing  it,  that's  the  main  thing."  She  said  it  laugh 
ingly,  but  expressed  her  feeling  notwithstanding. 
The  result  to  be  attained  interested  her  tremendously, 
the  process  not  at  all. 

"And  after  I  spent  an  hour  and  a  half  in  that  con 
founded  church  to  please  you!"  cried  Dan  in  mock 
reproach.  "Do  you  really  want  to  go?" 

29 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"No — but  I'm  getting  hungry.  We  have  break 
fast  at  daylight,  almost." 

"Oh,  well,  if  that's  all.  I've  got  some  stuff  here  in 
the  wagon — some  chicken  and  champagne  and  so  on. 
I  took  it  for  granted  you'd  want  to  see  it  through. 
I'll  tell  Stoneman  to  stop  pretty  soon  and  let  the 
crowd  feed,  and  you  and  I'll  go  up  to  the  house — 
that  is,  if  we  can  get  in." 

"Champagne?  I  never  tasted  it!"  Anna  cried 
gayly.  "This  is  really  a  picnic!" 

Dan  would  not  of  himself  have  chosen  this  occa 
sion  for  a  picnic;  and  secretly  he  would  now  have 
preferred  to  stay  on  the  ground,  where  he  could,  if 
necessary,  direct  the  auctioneer.  But  he  was  not 
as  loath  to  go  as  he  might  have  been  if  Mr.  Stoneman 
had  been  less  than  equal  to  his  reputation  or  the 
crowd  less  eager.  His  presence  was  not  necessary; 
as  for  stopping  for  lunch  while  the  bidding  was  still 
brisk,  he  thought  it  a  good  move,  and  Mr.  Stoneman 
agreed  with  him. 

"The  best  men  here — General  Rose,  and  Sepulveda, 
and  old  Baldwin — have  gone  in  strong,"  whispered 
the  auctioneer.  "Just  as  well  to  let  the  rest  of  'em 
reflect  on  that  for  a  few  minutes.  And  they're 
hungry,  too.  I've  seen  three  look  at  their  watches  in 
the  last  five  minutes.  This  air's  enough  to  make  you 
eat  your  boots  if  you  hadn't  anything  else  handy. 
Confess  I'd  like  a  bite  myself.  I'll  do  better  after 
lunch,  and  they  will  too,  I  guess." 

Accordingly,  after  Dan  had  seen  that  the  "free 
lunch"  was  ready  and  plenty  for  the  crowd,  he  drove 
back  to  the  house.  It  was  apparently  shut  up  and 
deserted. 

30 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"It  looks  as  if  Emmons  had  gone  away  for  the  day 
to  avoid  us,"  Dan  observed.  "I  know  they  haven't 
left  for  good  yet." 

"Why  should  he?  Doesn't  he  like  seeing  his  place 
cut  up  and  sold?" 

"Oh,  I  hardly  think  he  has  much  sentiment  about 
that.  You  see,  he  hates  me/'  Dan  said  easily,  step 
ping  out  of  the  buggy.  "I'll  just  see  if  I  can  raise 
somebody.  If  not  we'll  eat  our  lunch  on  his  porch, 
anyway.  Take  the  reins  a  minute, — they  won't  run. 
Whoa,  Tom — stand,  Jerry!" 

He  went  up  the  single  step  to  the  narrow  porch, 
which  ran  across  the  front  of  the  house  and  was  cov 
ered  with  Lamarque  rose-vines  in  blossom.  From 
where  she  sat  in  the  buggy  Anna  could  have  reached 
an  armful  of  the  white  pink-hearted  blossoms.  Turn 
ing  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  horses,  Dan  knocked  at  the 
door,  and  after  a  moment's  delay  it  was  opened  by 
a  small  woman  in  black. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Devin,"  she  said  with  a  faint  smile,  put 
ting  out  a  thin  hand,  red  and  rough  from  work. 
"Won't  you  come  in?"  she  added,  but  with  some 
hesitation.  "I'm  all  alone.  Frank  has  taken  the 
children  to  town." 

"I'd  like  you  to  meet  Miss  Quartermain,"  Dan 
said,  and  in  a  lower  tone,  smiling  happily,  "I'm  going 
to  be  married." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad— I  shall  be  most  pleased,"  cried 
Mrs.  Emmons,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  pale 
reflection  of  its  brightness.  "I'm  so  glad  for  you." 

She  went  out  to  the  side  of  the  carriage  with  Dan, 
and  he  performed  the  introduction. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you.  I've  known  Mr. 
31 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Devin  ever  since  he  was  a  boy — you  know,  we  came 
from  the  same  town  in  Illinois/'  Mrs.  Emmons  said, 
looking  up  admiringly  at  the  radiant  girl. 

Anna  smiled  and  murmured  something  indefinite. 

"Won't  you  come  in?  You  might  like  to  rest  a 
little,"  Mrs.  Emmons  then  said  rather  nervously. 

Dan  understood  what  was  back  of  this  nervous 
ness — her  husband's  feeling  toward  him;  but  as  he 
had  only  a  serene  contempt  for  Emmons,  whereas 
he  liked  Mrs.  Emmons  and  thought  she  still  liked 
him,  he  agreed  promptly. 

"In  fact,  we  came  to  invite  ourselves  to  lunch," 
he  said  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness,  "and  even 
went  so  far  as  to  bring  the  lunch  with  us.  I'll 
leave  Miss  Quartermain  with  you  and  put  the  horses 

in  the  barn "     Then  something  in   her  manner 

checked  him.  "I  hope  we  aren't  putting  you 
out — now  you  must  say  so  if  we  are " 

"Oh,  no " 

She  was  certainly  looking  ill,  Dan  thought — much 
older  and  thinner  than  when  he  last  saw  her,  which, 
to  be  sure,  was  several  years  ago. 

"You're  all  alone,  are  you?"  he  asked,  a  little 
uncomfortable.  "I'd  hoped  to  see  the  children.  I 
hope  they're  all  well." 

"Oh,  yes."  The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  What  ailed 
her,  Dan  wondered  helplessly. 

"And  the  little  chap — my  boy — he  must  be  a  big 
fellow  now " 

Mrs.  Emmons  gasped,  stared  at  him  and  caught  at 
his  arm. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "you  know,  don't  you?" 

"Know  what?"  said  Dan,  turning  red. 
32 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Why,  Dan,  he  died — he  died  four  months  ago," — 
she  burst  out  crying,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Dan  cast  an  imploring  look  at  Anna,  then  put  his 
arm  about  the  weeping  woman  and  took  her  into  the 
house.  From  the  narrow  entry  opened  on  one  side 
a  small  sitting-room  in  which  the  family  took  their 
meals.  There  was  an  old  horse-hair  lounge  in  one 
corner  that  Dan  remembered  well.  They  sat  down 
on  that. 

"Emmons  never  told  me — he  never  said  a  word 
about  it,  though  I've  seen  him  twice  in  the  last 
month/'  said  Dan,  his  voice  trembling.  His  face 
was  flushed  and  his  blue  eyes  shone  fiercely.  "He 
knew  I  was  fond  of  the  little  chap — why  should  he 
treat  me  so!  And  you  thought  I  knew?" 

Mary  Emmons  nodded,  groping  for  her  handker 
chief.  Dan's  agitation  calmed  her.  She  looked  up 
to  see  his  tears  and  her  own  ceased  to  flow. 

"But  I  knew  you  would  feel  it,"  she  said. 

"But  you  wondered  why  I  never  came — you  must 
have  thought " 

"No.  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  the  trouble  with 
Frank " 

"No,  you  thought  I  was  a  heartless  brute  not  to 
come.  Poor  little  Allie,  poor  baby — don't  you  re 
member  how  fond  he  used  to  be  of  me?  He  was 
three  when  I  saw  him  last;  and  I  would  have  come 
to  see  you  and  him  often  since  then — if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Frank.  You  know  it." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  I  know  you  are  good  and  kind." 
She  spoke  almost  triumphantly,  and  took  Dan's 
hand  in  both  hers.  "He  died  of  pneumonia — he  was 
only  sick  three  days.  He  stayed  out  one  night  with 

33 


TtiE  FORERUNNER 

his  father,  when  they  were  irrigating  the  orange  or 
chard — and  you  know  he  inherited  weak  lungs,  any 
way." 

She  finished  in  a  hard  tone,  and,  setting  her  lips  to 
gether,  stared  at  the  floor.  Dan  felt  instantly  that 
she  blamed  her  husband,  indirectly  at  least,  for  the 
boy's  death,  and  his  heart  leaped  with  sympathy  for 
her.  He  was  silent,  thinking  of  the  child  that  he 
had  loved,  and  of  the  time  when  he  had  lived  in  this 
house. 

It  had  not  changed  in  the  six  years  since  then; 
Emmons  had  not  even  painted  it.  The  cheap  paper 
on  the  walls  was  actually  the  same.  Dan  remembered 
every  piece  of  the  scanty  furniture — the  black  walnut 
table  covered  with  a  red  figured  cloth,  the  cane-bot 
tomed  chairs,  the  sewing-machine  always  piled  with 
work,  the  old  lumpy  lounge,  the  worn  carpet,  the 
little  stove  that  they  used  on  rainy  days,  that  would 
get  red-hot  and  smell  of  blacking.  Next  to  this 
room  was  the  bedroom  that  used  to  be  his — just  big 
enough  for  the  cheap  yellow-painted  bed,  bureau, 
wash-stand  and  one  chair.  There  were  two  other 
tiny  bedrooms,  where  the  Emmonses  and  their  three 
children  had  slept;  and  the  kitchen  where  Mary 
Emmons's  days  had  been  mainly  spent,  and  doubtless 
were  now. 

Dan  remembered  the  occasion  of  his  first  open 
quarrel  with  Emmons;  that  was  about  four  months 
after  he  had  come  out  from  Illinois,  at  Emmons's 
suggestion,  to  invest  his  few  hundred  dollars  in  a 
third  interest  in  the  ranch,  and  to  give  his  time  and 
energy  to  develop  it.  From  the  very  first  they 
had  disagreed.  Emmons  was  consumptive,  a  thin- 

34 


THE   FORERUNNER 

blooded,  cautious,  careful  man,  ten  years  Dan's 
senior.  Dan  was  twenty- two;  full  of  large  ideas 
that  were  of  his  time,  and  of  spirits  and  energy  that 
were  all  his  own.  He  immediately  saw  golden  pros 
pects  in  the  fruit  farm,  but  they  must  branch  out, 
put  in  more  money,  get  some  new  ploughs  and 
horses.  Emmons  negatived  every  such  proposition. 
Then  one  day,  angered  at  the  sight  of  Mary,  frail 
and  weak,  working  in  the  hot  kitchen— she  did  all 
the  work  of  the  house,  besides  the  care  of  the  two 
children,  with  another  one  expected — Dan  had  gone 
to  town,  and  brought  out  a  Chinaman,  whose  wages 
were  to  be  thirty  dollars  a  month.  Emmons  had 
bitterly  refused  to  pay  any  part  of  this  new  expense, 
and  Dan  paid  the  Chinaman  for  three  months.  Then 
Mary  herself — when  the  baby  was  two  months  old — 
insisted  on  dismissing  him.  Dan,  when  he  was  about 
the  house,  would  often  take  care  of  the  baby,  and  so 
grew  fond  of  him.  But  the  final  break  with  Emmons 
came  when  Dan  had  been  on  the  ranch  but  eighteen 
months.  He  felt  himself  that  he  was  not  cut  out  for 
a  small  farmer.  He  gave  Emmons  the  alternative 
of  buying  his  interest  at  the  price  he  had  paid  for  it, 
or  of  selling  his  own  two-thirds  to  Dan,  who  intended 
to  raise  the  money  to  pay  for  it  on  a  mortgage. 
Emmons  explosively  damned  both  propositions  and 
termed  Dan's  conduct  dishonorable.  He  held  that 
Dan  had  agreed  to  manage  the  business  of  the  ranch, 
it  being  understood  that  he  was  not  to  wreck  it.  Dan 
pointed  out  that  he  was  not  bound  by  any  agreement 
for  a  specified  length  of  time  and  that  when  he  had 
taken  the  management  of  the  ranch  he  had  expected 
to  have  some  control.  By  "management,"  on  the 

35 


THE   FORERUNNER 

other    hand,    Emmons    understood    practically    an 
overseer's  work. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Emmons  secured  a  new 
partner  who  bought  Dan's  interest;  and  the  two 
men  parted  very  bad  friends.  Dan  considered  Em 
mons  a  fool  and  an  old  fogy,  and  carelessly  dismissed 
him  from  his  mind;  while  Emmons  thought  Dan 
plainly  dishonest,  and  was  tenacious  and  voluble  of 
his  injuries;  and  bad  accounts  of  Dan  went  back  to 
his  home  town,  Mapleton,  while  he  on  his  part  wrote 
nothing  of  the  matter  at  all  in  his  infrequent  letters 
to  his  mother,  except  that  he  had  parted  from  Em 
mons. 

Dan  had  never  felt  so  bitterly  toward  Emmons  as 
he  did  now.  When  the  boom  in  land  began  to  reach 
out  into  the  country  and  he  conceived  the  idea  of 
buying  part  of  Emmons's  ranch,  which  had  not  paid 
well,  to  sell  it  again  in  town  lots,  he  had  even  felt 
pleasure  in  being  able  to  throw  a  chance  in  Emmons' s 
way.  He  had  paid  him  in  cash,  as  half  payment, 
more  than  Emmons  had  originally  paid  for  the  whole 
ranch;  and  had  given  his  note  at  ninety  days  for  the 
rest.  Dan  had  felt  an  easy  pity  for  the  poor,  plod 
ding  fellow  who  still  hated  him — but  now  he  was 
conscious  of  something  very  like  hatred  in  return. 

Outside  the  open  window  where  the  rose-vines 
shut  out  light  and  air  the  horses  began  to  stamp  and 
Anna  called  rather  sharply, 

"Dan!    I  can't  hold  them  much  longer!" 

He  sprang  up. 

"I  must  go,  but  I'll  come  to  see  you  again " 

"We're  going  away,  you  know — back  to  Maple- 
ton,"  Mary  said,  rising  too. 

36 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  didn't  know.     How  soon?" 

"Oh,  in  about  two  weeks." 

"And  you're  glad?    You  used  to  be  so  homesick." 

"I  know.  Yes,  I  want  to  see  my  folks.  But  now 
— I  have  to  leave  him  here — you  understand?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I'll  come  out  to  see  you  before 
you  go.  God  bless  you." 

He  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek,  hurried  out  and  got  into 
the  buggy. 

Anna  released  the  reins  without  a  word.  The  rose 
in  her  cheeks  was  decidedly  brightened,  perhaps  by 
exertion,  for  the  team  was  pulling  hard.  Dan  gave 
them  their  heads  and  they  whirled  down  the  drive 
way  and  out  into  the  road  like  a  flash. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  keeping  you  like  that," 
said  Dan  humbly;  "but  that  poor  woman — I  couldn't 
leave  her  for  a  few  moments " 

"I  was  frightened — they  almost  ran  away  with 
me,"  Anna  said  indignantly. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry — but  you  heard,  didn't  you? 
Her  child  had  died  and  I  didn't  know  it.  I  asked 
for  him.  ...  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  him 
when  he  was  a  baby.  ...  I  always  sent  him 
a  present  at  Christmas.  Emmons  knew  that,  he 
knew  .  .  .  and  he  never  told  me!  The  infernal 
mean " 

Dan  choked.  The  off-horse  shied  violently  at  a 
newspaper  blowing  across  the  road.  Dan  snatched 
out  the  whip  and  slashed  him;  then,  with  a  savage 
jerk  at  the  reins,  pulled  him  back  into  the  road. 
Anna  looked  at  Dan  in  astonishment. 

"Why  are  you  so  rough?"  she  asked  chillingly. 

"Am  I? — forgive  me,  dear.  I'm  rather  upset,  you 
37 


THE  FORERUNNER 

see.  All  this  is  uncomfortable  for  you,  I  know.  But 
you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you?  You've  got  to!" 

He  threw  his  arm  around  her,  pressed  her  close 
and  kissed  her. 

"What  a  bear!"  Anna  cried  as  she  put  her  hat 
straight — but  she  smiled. 

"And  what  about  the  auction?  Aren't  we  going 
back?" 

"Do  you  want  to?  You  can  see  now  what  it's  like. 
I  thought  you  wouldn't  want  to  be  mixed  up  in  the 
crowd." 

"But  I  thought  you  had  to  be  there     .     .     .?" 

"Oh,  not  with  things  as  they're  going  now.  It's 
all  right.  I'm  not  needed.  And  I  want  to  be  with 
you,  my  beautiful  girl — I  can't  think  about  business 
now!" 


38 


III. 


expedition  ended  rather  grayly  for  Anna,  in 
a  family  luncheon  at  her  home.  Dan  had  sug 
gested  going  to  a  downtown  restaurant,  but  with  the 
proviso  that  he  must  leave  her  immediately  after 
ward,  to  meet  Mr.  Stoneman  on  his  return.  "So 
perhaps  we'd  better  wait  till  another  day,  when  I'm 
free,"  he  added. 

"Is  there  any  such  day?  "  Anna  asked.  "But  yes, 
I  suppose  we'd  better  wait.  I'll  go  home,  then." 

"And  you'll  give  me  a  bite  of  lunch,  won't  you? 
I'll  contribute  that  chicken  and  champagne." 

"Good  heavens,  don't  mention  champagne  in  our 
house  !  I  believe  my  parents  would  forbid  the  banns  !" 

"Oh,  I  forgot.  Well,  I  sha'n't  miss  it.  Champagne 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  is  something  new  to  me. 
But  I  thought  you  might  like  to  try  it." 

"Oh,  I  should.  And  I  will  when  —  when  I  can  do 
as  I  like."  Anna  brightened  at  this  general  prospect. 

"Now's  my  chance,"  said  Dan,  pulling  the  horses 
down  to  a  walk,  for  they  were  turning  into  Figueroa 
Street,  where  Anna  lived.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to 
begin  doing  as  you  like  right  away?"  he  demanded. 

Anna  made  no  reply,  but  seemed  to  be  pondering 
the  question. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  be  married  at  once?"  he  pur 
sued. 

"At  once  -  ?" 

39 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  mean  in  a  few  days.  I  suppose  women  always 
have  to  have  some  time  for  fussing  and  fal-lals.  But 
you  can  get  all  those  afterward,  you  know.  Say  a 
week  from  to-day." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  get  ready  by  then,"  Anna  pro 
tested.  "I  must  have  one  dress." 

"Well,  can't  you  get  one  dress  in  a  week?  Surely 
you  can,  dearest.  Or  if  not,  what's  the  difference? 
We'll  go  right  up  to  San  Francisco,  and  there  you 
can  get  all  the  frills  you  want." 

Dan  stopped  the  team — they  were  within  a  few 
doors  of  Anna's  home — and  appeared  determined 
not  to  go  on  till  he  had  his  answer.  And  Anna  looked 
straight  before  her  pensively;  her  eyes  shone  and  her 
lips  curved;  she  was  a  sweet  image  of  maiden  hap 
piness. 

"I  don't  know  what  father  and  mother  will  say," 
she  said  finally.  "You'll  have  to  ask  them." 

"I  will.  But  it  doesn't  matter  what  they  say, 
does  it?  This  is  our  affair,  you  know." 

Anna  laughed  in  the  consciousness  that  this  was 
perfectly  true.  She  was  not  much  subject  to  her 
parents;  and  she  was  altogether  glad  to  be  leaving 
their  household  for  one  where  things  would  certainly 
be  better  ordered.  Dan  understood.  He  drove  on, 
feeling  that  everything  was  coming  his  way. 

The  little  house  in  which  lived  the  Reverend  James 
Allen  Quartermain  and  his  family  was  almost  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  It  stood  where  the  broad, 
paved  street,  lined  with  large,  prosperous  houses  set 
in  sweeps  of  green  lawn  and  shaded  by  a  fine  double 
row  of  pepper-trees,  began  to  narrow  and  break  up 
into  the  country  road.  The  cottage  itself  was  one  of 

40 


THE   FORERUNNER 

a  number  in  the  so-called  Queen  Anne  style,  which 
certainly  owed  its  popularity  to  no  kind  of  fitness  or 
harmony  with  its  surroundings.  It  was  a  little  box 
of  a  place,  a  story  and  a  half  high,  painted  in  two 
shades  of  brown,  shingled  half-way  down,  and  dotted 
with  a  strange  eruption  of  gables,  peaks,  and  odd- 
shaped  windows  filled  with  colored  glass.  It  had  a 
small  porch,  up  which  climbed  a  Marechal  Niel  rose- 
vine,  heavy  with  yellow  blossoms.  There  was  a  tiny 
lawn  of  coarse  grass,  along  the  sides  of  which  grew 
rows  of  calla-lilies,  and  instead  of  a  fence  a  cypress 
hedge,  bright  and  untidy  with  new  shoots. 

The  place  did  not  belong  to  Mr.  Quartermain.  It 
was  the  fourth  house  Anna  had  lived  in;  though  she 
had  been  born,  and  spent  all  her  eighteen  years,  in 
the  same  town.  The  three  others  had  been  like  unto 
this — small,  ugly,  and  rented.  Inside  was  the  fur 
niture  that  Anna  had  vainly  hoped  each  year  to  see 
the  last  of;  in  the  parlor,  for  example,  a  flowered 
carpet  and  wall-paper,  an  old  square  piano,  a  set  of 
sofas  and  chairs  upholstered  in  worn  brown  plush, 
two  marble-topped  tables,  and  a  good  deal  of  bric-a- 
brac,  including  a  number  of  paintings,  one  on  an 
easel,  by  Mrs.  Quartermain.  But  this  room  repre 
sented  her  taste  entirely;  Mr.  Quartermain  never 
entered  it  if  he  could  help  it.  He  had  his  study  and 
books  in  the  little  church  near  by,  and  there  read  and 
wrote,  when  not  on  active  duty  or  abroad  upon  his 
pastoral  business;  coming  home  mainly  to  eat  and 
sleep,  and  not  doing  either  of  these  very  heartily. 

Dan  hitched  his  horses,  which  by  this  time  had 
worked  off  their  superfluous  spirits,  to  the  post  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  carried  in  the  basket  of  eat- 

41 


THE   FORERUNNER 

ables.  Anna  took  this  from  him  at  the  door  and 
ushered  him  into  the  parlor,  where  in  a  moment  the 
head  of  the  house  joined  him.  This  was  the  first 
time  that  Dan  had  seen  his  future  father-in-law  alone; 
but  now  they  had  some  time  to  make  one  another's 
acquaintance,  for  a  guest  at  meals  was  a  rarity  in 
the  household,  and  involved  much  perturbation  and 
rushing  to  and  fro  between  kitchen  and  dining-room 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Quartermain,  who  kept  no  ser 
vant.  Anna  usually  did  the  lighter  part  of  the  house 
work,  and  she  was  now  instructed  to  get  out  the  best 
table-cloth  and  the  scanty  best  china  and  set  the 
table,  not  forgetting  a  bouquet  of  flowers  in  the  cen 
tre,  and  the  cut-glass  butter-dish  and  salad-bowl. 
She  performed  this  task  languidly,  listening  the  while 
to  the  amicable  murmur  of  talk  on  the  other  side  of 
the  folding  doors. 

The  introduction  of  Dan  to  her  family  had  caused 
her  some  uncomfortable  moments;  in  particular  the 
thought  that  he  ought  to  be  asked  to  a  meal.  It  was 
now  two  months  since  Dan  had  heard  her  sing  at  a 
public  concert  of  the  musical  club  she  belonged  to, 
and  got  himself  presented  to  her;  and  he  had  been 
calling  on  her  with  great  and  increasing  frequency 
ever  since.  But  he  had  not  been  asked  to  break 
bread  with  the  family.  Anna  felt  that  he  must  think 
it  queer,  especially  when  it  became  understood  that 
they  were  engaged;  but  she  had  hung  back  from  ask 
ing  him.  Now  she  was  glad  that  it  had  come  about 
in  this  perfectly  informal  way,  though  she  disliked 
the  prospect  of  the  next  hour;  and  now,  at  least, 
Herwin  would  not  be  there.  Herwin  was  her  brother, 
two  years  older  than  herself,  and — they  all  admitted 

42 


THE   FORERUNNER 

it — a  bad  lot.  At  present  he  had  a  position  as  book 
keeper  in  the  Clarion  office;  too  far  downtown  to 
come  home  for  lunch.  It  was  because  of  his  failing 
that  even  the  mention  of  spirituous  things  was  tabooed 
in  the  family  circle,  as  Dan  had  been  warned. 
Anna  wondered  what  they  were  talking  about,  her 
father  and  her  lover.  About  her,  perhaps.  They 
seemed  to  be  getting  on  very  well.  The  murmur  of 
voices — now  Dan's  deep,  decisive  tones,  now  her 
father's,  slower,  slightly  husky,  but  musical — was 
continuous. 

The  voice  in  both  cases  fitted  the  physical  presence. 
Mr.  Quartermain  was  a  faded  aristocrat  in  looks — a 
slight  man  who  would  have  been  above  middle  height 
but  that  he  stooped,  with  a  beautifully  shaped  head, 
light  silky  brown  hair  and  beard,  a  delicate  skin, 
through  which  the  blue  veins  showed  on  his  temples, 
and  on  his  long,  fragile  hands.  His  eyes  were  deeply 
melancholy;  there  were  fretful  lines  about  them. 
The  look  of  oppression,  of  harassing  care,  marked  his 
whole  figure  and  was  now,  indeed,  become  a  physical 
habit.  Yet  even  now  he  could  throw  it  off  at  times, 
when  his  native  temperament  could  have  sway — 
generally  in  the  pulpit,  for  there  alone  he  was  really 
free.  His  imaginative  eloquence  was  profoundly 
religious — but  it  was  the  religion  of  the  solitary.  He 
could  have  been  a  hermit  living  in  a  mystic  glow  of 
emotion.  Locusts  and  wild  honey  might  have  satis 
fied  the  demands  of  the  flesh  upon  him;  and  he  would 
have  poured  all  his  fervor  into  the  joys  of  the  spirit. 
But,  alas,  he  lived  in  the  world  of  the  butcher  and 
the  grocer;  his  salary,  even  when  it  was  paid,  some 
how  never  paid  the  bills.  Religion  helped  him  to 

43 


THE  FORERUNNER 

bear  his  son's  misconduct,  but  it  did  not  reconcile 
him  to  being  dunned  by  tradesmen. 

Anna  knew  better  than  he  why  the  tradesmen 
were  seldom  paid;  also  why  their  accounts,  taken  by 
the  month,  were  so  small.  Her  mother  scrimped  on 
food,  light,  and  fuel  for  the  household,  and  handed 
over  every  cent  she  could  thus  save  to  Herwin.  Anna 
had  discovered  this  two  years  before,  and  her  mother, 
weeping,  had  made  her  promise  not  to  tell  her  father. 
Anna  kept  her  promise,  but  blamed  her  mother's 
weakness  and  her  father's  blindness  for  this  wrong 
and  injustice.  She  hardened  to  them  both  as  well 
as  to  Herwin.  Naturally  the  family  life  was  not  a 
happy  one. 

Mr.  Quartermain  knew  that  he  had  no  hold  over 
his  children.  In  Anna's  case  he  felt  it  without  know 
ing  the  reason ;  she  grew  up  suddenly  and  all  at  once 
shook  off  impatiently  even  the  hint  of  control  or  ad 
vice.  She  had  not  asked  parental  permission  to 
marry.  When  Daniel  Devin  had  been  coming  to 
the  house  for  a  month  or  more,  Mrs.  Quartermain  one 
night  followed  Anna  into  her  little  bedroom  and 
hesitatingly  said: 

"Mr.  Devin  comes  here  a  good  deal,  Anna." 

"Yes.  He  wants  to  marry  me,"  was  the  cool 
reply. 

"And — have  you — do  you ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  will." 

"You  ought  to  tell  us  more  about  him,  Anna!  We 
should  know  before  you  think  of  such  a  step " 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,  mother,"  Anna  had  said 
gravely,  "I'll  tell  you  everything  I  know  about  him, 
of  course.  But  I  shall  decide  for  myself." 

44 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Mrs.  Quartermain  wept  at  that;  and  Anna  felt  the 
ungraciousness  of  her  own  attitude,  but  hardly  said 
to  herself  that  she  couldn't  help  it.  Her  main  feel 
ings  toward  her  parents  were  irritation  and  something 
very  like  contempt,  and  one  of  her  main  characteris 
tics  was  candor.  She  could  not  pretend  to  meet  her 
father's  timid  advances  on  this  occasion  with  con 
fidence.  She  told  him  the  bare  facts  about  Daniel 
Devin  as  she  knew  them ;  that  he  was  born  in  Illinois 
and  had  come  from  there  to  California  eight  years  ago ; 
that  he  had  been  in  business,  first  in  the  orange  ranch, 
next  as  a  business  manager  for  the  Clarion,  then  in 
real  estate;  that  he  was  well-to-do. 

It  was  not  the  part  of  such  a  parent  as  Mr.  Quar 
termain  to  cross-examine  the  suitor  himself.  At 
least,  though  he  had  a  dim  feeling  that  he  ought  to 
have  a  serious  conversation  with  Devin,  he  was  quite 
unable  to  begin  it.  Therefore  when  Mr.  Quarter- 
main  shook  hands  with  Dan  and  welcomed  him  with 
nervous  cordiality,  there  was  embarrassment  on 
both  sides;  for  Dan,  too,  felt  that  something  must 
be  said.  With  one  accord  they  plunged  into  a  dis 
cussion  of  the  real-estate  situation;  if  that  may  be 
called  a  discussion  which  was  really  a  monologue  on 
Dan's  part,  punctuated  by  an  occasional  vague  ques 
tion  from  his  host. 

Dan  had  not  meant  to  begin  talking  about  himself, 
but  in  accounting  for  his  unexpected  return  with 
Anna,  he  spoke  of  the  auction,  its  success,  and  the 
general  rapid  progress  in  the  building  up  of  the  coun 
try  by  means  of  similar  sales. 

"Ah,  yes— people  call  it  the  boom,  don't  they?" 
asked  Mr,  Quartermain. 

45 


THE   FORERUNNER 

He  had  the  haziest  ideas  of  the  state  of  the  country 
in  general,  and  of  real  estate  in  particular. 

"Boom,  yes — in  a  sense  it  is,"  Dan  promptly  re 
sponded.  "Certainly  the  town  is  booming  as  most 
people  never  expected  to  see  it.  Crowds  coming  on 
every  train,  most  of  them  to  settle  here — houses, 
hotels,  office-buildings  going  up  by  the  hundred — 
yes,  it  is  a  boom.  But  usually  when  people  use  that 
word  it  means  a  sudden  thing  that  doesn't  last — 
like  some  of  the  mining  towns,  you  know,  that  have 
been  built  up  in  a  few  weeks — and  never  grow  after 
ward.  This  boom  isn't  that  sort;  it's  here  to  stay. 
And  if  people  never  saw  anything  like  it — why,  they 
never  saw  a  country  like  this,  either.  It's  a  wonder 
ful  country.  We're  just  beginning  to  see  its  possi 
bilities.  For  years  people  thought  that  about  all  it 
had  was  climate.  You  know  how  everybody  talked 
about  the  climate  and  made  most  of  their  money  out 
of  the  tourists  that  came  out  here  to  sample  it.  Now 
we've  got  a  long  way  past  caring  about  tourists. 
What  we  want  now  is  actual  settlers,  with  money 
in  their  pockets  and  a  determination  to  help  make 
this  section  what  it's  bound  to  be — one  of  the  rich 
est  in  the  whole  country."  Dan's  fluency  was 
breathless. 

"You  say  'we' — I  infer  that  you  have  identified 
your  interests,  to  a  large  extent,  with  those  of  the 
country,"  said  Mr.  Quartermain. 

"I  feel  as  though  I  belonged  to  it,"  was  the  quick 
response.  "I  like  everything  about  it — the  bigness 
of  it,  and  the  feeling  of  newness.  There  are  chances 
that  you  don't  get  back  East.  It's  too  crowded 
there.  You  can't  move  without  brushing  up  against 

46 


THE   FORERUNNER 

some  fellow — in  a  business  way,  I  mean.  Here  you 
can  get  your  start,  at  least,  before  the  crowd  gets  in. 
Yes.  I  hope  to  stay  here  for  some  time  to  come.  I 
don't  know  of  a  better  place  for  a  home." 

Dan's  voice  quavered  a  little  on  the  last  sentence. 
He  reddened,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  was  about  to 
broach  the  important  subject  when  the  interruption 
came.  Anna  opened  the  folding-doors  and  asked 
them  to  come  out  to  lunch. 

It  was  not  a  gay  meal,  but  they  got  on  well  enough, 
Dan  and  Mr.  Quartermain  contributing  most  of  the 
talk.  Mrs.  Quartermain,  a  plain,  eager-faced  woman 
of  solid  figure,  had  a  constrained  manner  of  speaking 
and  smiling.  She  devoted  herself  to  carving  Dan's 
cold  chicken,  and  circulating  the  other  eatables. 
Dan  said  to  Anna — he  went  away  immediately  after 
the  meal,  and  she  walked  bareheaded  out  to  the 
street  with  him — that  he  thought  her  mother  looked 
unhappy. 

"And  I  guess  she  has  a  grudge  against  me  for  tak 
ing  you  away,"  he  added. 

"No,  she's  glad,"  said  Anna,  positively.  "She 
knows  I'm  not  happy  at  home." 

The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  She  had  a  kind  of 
pride,  which  would  have  impelled  her,  if  possible,  to 
conceal  that  fact,  but  she  couldn't  do  it.  She  was 
keenly  sensitive,  however,  to  the  impression  that 
Dan  might  have  received. 

"I  liked  the  old  gentleman  very  much,"  he  said. 
"But  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  He's  too  fine,  I  guess,  to 
get  on  in  this  world.  .  .,  .  I  didn't  get  a  chance 
to  tell  him — I  was  just  going  to  when  you  came  in — 
but  it's  settled  anyway,  isn't  it?  In  a  week?  I  can 

47 


THE   FORERUNNER 

get  away  so  much  better  then — later  I  shall  have  to 
be  here  right  along." 

Anna  would  not  give  a  definite  answer.  Vaguely 
she  resented  the  mention  of  business  then,  the  idea 
that  Dan  could  think  of  it  in  connection  with  the 
more  momentous  affair  of  the  wedding.  And  yet 
the  main  thing  she  admired  in  him  was  this  very 
practical  turn.  A  man  who  had  not  the  ability  to 
make  the  world  serve  him  might  be  as  fine  as  he  liked, 
but  he  would  not  have  appealed  to  Anna.  No,  it 
was  right  that  Dan  should  be  devoted  to  business — 
up  to  the  point  where  her  own  claims  might  interfere. 
Naturally,  she  doubted  nothing  that  these  claims 
would  be  honored  first  of  all.  A  young  beauty, 
wooed  in  Dan's  headlong  way,  can  hardly  regard 
herself  as  anything  but  a  privileged  creditor,  with  a 
lien  upon  her  lover's  entire  being.  And  how  should 
Anna  suspect  that  Dan  put  into  his  work  a  large  part 
of  the  ardor,  the  dreams,  and  the  hopes  that  Love 
should  properly  monopolize? 


48 


IV. 

T^AN'S  whole  life  had  been  concerned  with  practi- 
-*-'  cal  things.  He  had  always  been  making  money, 
or  trying  to  make  it,  since  he  was  fifteen  years  old. 
But  though  he  wanted  to  be  rich,  he  loved  action  for 
its  own  sake;  and  action  in  his  circumstances  meant 
business.  But  to  him  it  could  never  mean  simply 
trading,  nor  farming,  nor  manufacturing  on  a  small 
scale;  in  fact,  none  of  the  things  that  lay  within  his 
immediate  reach  in  his  native  place.  It  must  have 
the  elements  of  originality  and  risk,  must  put  to  use 
the  strongest  things  in  him — imagination  and  daring, 
an  emotional  delight  in  letting  himself  go.  The 
faculty  which  he  had  of  seeing  in  a  way  over  the  heads 
of  the  people  about  him,  of  seeing  things  in  a  brighter, 
sharper  light — somewhat  as  through  a  prism  all  ob 
jects  are  outlined  in  a  glow  of  color — came  to  him 
directly  from  an  emotional  mother,  and  perhaps  in 
directly  from  that  far-away  Irish  ancestor,  along  with 
the  streak  of  fire  in  the  blood  and  the  sanguine  tem 
per. 

And  there  were  things  in  Dan's  boyhood  to  stir  the 
blood  and  breed  dreams. 

His  father,  to  begin  with,  seemed  a  prosaic  man 
enough,  though  in  the  end  he  came  to  wear  an 
aureole  for  Dan.  He  was  an  engine-driver  by  trade, 
and  came  from  Vermont  on  the  wave  of  Eastern 
emigration  that  settled  Illinois.  But  unknowingly 

49 


THE   FORERUNNER 

to  meet  him  there,  came  from  the  Western  Reserve 
the  daughter  of  a  frontiersman,  then  a  tall,  strapping 
girl  of  nineteen,  hardened  by  the  life  which  had  killed 
off  the  feebler  ones  of  her  family.  Somehow  she  had 
felt  enough  of  the  spirit  of  that  rude,  simple  life,  of 
the  impulse  of  the  pioneer,  pushing  with  axe  and 
gun  into  the  wilderness,  to  be  able  to  hand  it  down 
to  her  son.  Homesickness  helped  her  to  paint  those 
vivid  pictures.  She  longed  for  the  forests;  the  flat 
prairie  wearied  her;  and  the  half-grown  trees  which 
the  New  Englanders  had  planted  on  it  only  empha 
sized  that  flatness.  Dan  came  to  know  exactly  how 
the  forests  and  log-houses  looked;  he  had  absorbed 
every  detail  of  that  four- weeks  journey,  from  Ohio 
to  the  Illinois  line,  which  Abraham  Cleghorn,  with 
his  wife  and  seven  surviving  children  and  all  his 
worldly  goods,  had  made  in  two  covered  wagons 
drawn  by  four  oxen  each  and  followed  by  a  couple 
of  cows.  The  family  ate  and  slept  in  these  wagons. 
In  each  was  a  small  charcoal  furnace,  which  served 
for  heating  and  cooking.  So  vivid  were  all  these 
things  to  Dan  that  he  thought  he  had  made  that 
journey  himself.  He  was  nearly  seven  before  he 
ceased  to  relate  how  he  had  gone  out  with  his  grand 
father,  with  a  hatchet  and  bucket,  to  cut  from  the 
charred  trees  along  the  route  the  charcoal  for  those 
wagon-stoves.  But  Dan  was  the  sixth  child  of  John 
Devin  and  Martha  Cleghorn,  after  they  had  settled 
on  a  small  farm  near  the  village  of  Mapleton  and,  ac 
cording  to  the  tradition  of  their  time,  begun  to  mul 
tiply. 

Most  important  to  his  outlook  on  life,  he  was  of  the 
generation  of  the  Civil  War ;   old  enough  when  it  be- 

50 


THE   FORERUNNER 

gan  to  remember  his  father's  departure  with  the  first 
volunteer  regiment  from  their  county.  Dan  thought 
he  recollected  even  the  previous  drilling  and  enlisting 
of  men  in  Maple  ton;  and  undoubtedly  about  this 
time  the  line  between  fact  and  vivid  fancy  began  to 
be  drawn.  Thus  at  a  bound  the  boy's  horizon,  which 
else  would  have  included  only  Mapleton,  and  a  vague 
notion  of  the  West,  widened  indefinitely.  When 
ever  a  neighbor  came  to  their  house,  or  whenever 
the  mother  talked  to  her  children,  Dan  heard  of  fear 
fully  interesting  things,  too  big  for  him  to  grasp. 
Names  became  familiar  to  him  that  he  never  forgot, 
though  he  only  understood  them  later:  battle  and 
siege — Fort  Donelson,  Shiloh,  Vicksburg,  the  Battle 
of  Lookout  Mountain,  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness, 
the  March  to  the  Sea.  Dan  dreamed  night  and  day  of 
men  fighting  their  way  up  the  mountains,  through 
the  forest  wilderness,  all  the  infinite  way  to  the  ocean. 
Interwoven  with  his  childhood  thoughts  was  this  feel 
ing  of  the  vastness  of  the  country;  his  imagination 
took  fire  from  it.  Dan  now  could  never  be  bounded 
by  village  life.  But  Mapleton,  during  the  years  of  the 
war  and  immediately  afterward,  was  not  a  village; 
it  was  part  of  one  vast  community.  Practically 
every  household  in  or  near  it  was  bound  by  its  most 
sensitive  nerve;  the  fate  of  one  was  concerned  with 
the  fortune  of  all;  and  all  must  thrill  with  the  news 
of  battle,  east  or  west,  victory  or  defeat — life  or  death. 
Among  Dan's  war-time  pictures  were  these : 
The  arrival  at  their  house  of  the  local  paper,  the 
Mapleton  Weekly  Courier,  with  its  enormous  lists  of 
killed  and  wounded  after  each  great  battle;  his 
mother  first  in  fearful  silence  running  these  columns 

51 


THE  FORERUNNER 

through,  and  then  reading  aloud  to  the  awed,  un 
easy  children,  with  shaking  voice,  the  story  of  the 
fight. 

The  first  sight  of  a  wounded  soldier,  a  one-armed 
man. 

Their  giving  up  the  farm  and  moving  into  a  still 
smaller  house  in  Mapleton.  John  Devin  had  mortgaged 
his  little  property  when  he  enlisted,  in  order  to  leave  his 
family  money  enough  to  live  on  in  his  absence;  tak 
ing  the  chance  that  the  war  would  last,  as  the  coun 
try  generally  thought,  but  "ninety  days." 

The  rare  letters  from  his  father,  one  of  which  told 
that  he  had  been  wounded  and  had  spent  three  weeks 
in  hospital. 

The  illumination  of  Mapleton  in  honor  of  the  twin 
victories  of  Vicksburg  and  Gettysburg;  and  the  talk 
about  Grant,  whom  Dan  pictured  to  himself  as  a 
brilliant  hero  mounted  on  a  fire-breathing  steed  like 
that  in  an  engraving  of  Napoleon  which  hung  in  their 
parlor. 

The  sight  of  his  mother,  sewing,  sewing,  sewing, 
from  morning  till  night,  in  the  little  parlor  littered 
with  piles  of  cloth — for  she  made  their  living  now  as  a 
tailoress.  The  two  girls  and  three  boys  who  were 
older  than  Dan  did  the  housework  and  odd  jobs  out 
of  school  hours. 

The  news  that  his  father  had  been  wounded  again 
at  Savannah  .  .  .  the  long  expectation  of  him 
.  .  .  his  return.  A  stranger,  a  white,  old-look 
ing  man,  with  crutches  and  only  one  leg  ... 
with  a  beard  .  .  .  in  an  old  blue  uniform.  The 
neighbors  all  came  to  see  him,  and  he  seemed  too 
tired  to  talk.  Dan's  mother  never  cried  before  his 

52 


THE  FORERUNNER 

father,  but  often  did  when  only  the  children  were 
about.    She  sewed  as  much  as  ever. 

His  father's  beginning  to  talk  to  him  about  the 
war.  Dan  would  listen,  fascinated,  only  asking  ques 
tions  when  the  narrative  flagged.  Now  came  those 
sounding  names  again,  and  now  first  Dan  understood 
what  a  battle  was,  how  Vicksburg  was  taken,  how 
they  fought  the  Wilderness  through,  and  how  Sher 
man  marched  through  Georgia.  Now,  too,  his  father 
became  a  hero  to  him  by  reason  of  those  experiences. 

The  end  of  the  War.  Grant  had  licked  the  rebels 
out.  "Thank  God/'  said  Dan's  mother  sternly,  "and 
now  I  hope  they  will  be  punished  for  it.  I  hope  they 
will  hang  that  man  Davis,  and  Toombs,  and  the  rest 
of  the  traitors!"  "There  has  been  blood  enough," 
Dan's  father  said  dreamily.  "We  want  peace." 

Then  a  black  day — a  kind  of  earthquake.  Dan 
is  playing  in  the  front  yard — it  is  warm,  everything 
is  thawing  out,  the  ground  soft  and  squashy  under 
foot — the  rich  man  who  lives  next  door,  Mr.  Elwood, 
a  solemn  deacon  on  ordinary  days,  comes  running 
down  the  street.  He  sees  Dan's  mother  sewing  at 
the  parlor  window  and  calls  out  to  her,  "Haven't  you 
heard  f  Lincoln  is  shot!"  Dan's  mother  throws  up 
the  window  and  leans  out.  She  looks  frightened. 
1 '  What  did  you  say  f"  '  'Lincoln  has  been  assassinated ! 
Seward  was  shot,  too,  and  Johnston,  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  more.  The  rebels  have  a  plot  to  seize  Wash 
ington!"  Dan's  mother  rushes  out  into  the  street. 
There  comes  his  father  on  his  crutches  .  .  .  there 
come  all  the  neighbors.  The  street  is  full  of  people. 
"Lincoln  is  dead.  What  will  happen  now?  Perhaps 
we  shall  have  to  fight  the  war  over  again." 

53 


THE   FORERUNNER 

There  is  no  supper  that  night  at  home.  "Don't 
bother  me!"  says  Dan's  mother  fiercely,  sitting  in 
the  parlor  in  the  dark.  The  children  help  them 
selves  to  preserves  and  gingerbread  in  the  kitchen. 
They  are  hungry,  even  if  the  War  has  got  to  be 
fought  over  again.  Dan  thinks  that  Grant  and  old 
Sherman  can  lick  the  Johnny  Rebs  again,  anyhow, 
and  perhaps  he  will  have  a  chance  to  go  this  time. 
Next  day  it  is  like  a  funeral.  Nearly  every  house 
and  all  the  stores  have  black  cloth  hangings.  Peo 
ple  cry  in  the  streets. 

The  night  that  Dan  is  taken  into  Chicago  to  see 
the  dead  President  lying  in  state.  The  train  is 
crowded  when  they  get  on,  but  a  seat  is  given  to  his 
father  and  mother.  Dan  and  his  older  brothers  and 
sisters  stand  in  the  jammed  aisle.  It  is  the  first 
time  Dan  has  seen  the  city.  He  is  taken  through 
miles  of  streets,  all  lighted  up  and  all  crowded  with 
people.  The  crowd  is  noisy ;  some  are  crying;  some 
are  swearing,  but  Dan's  father  goes  ahead  on  his 
crutches,  and  the  people  push  back  and  let  him  pass. 
After  him  goes  Dan's  mother,  dragging  Dan  by  the 
hand,  and  calling  to  the  others  to  keep  close  behind. 
At  last  they  get  into  the  building.  Dan  had  never 
imagined  that  a  building  could  be  a  mile  wide  and 
high.  He  wonders  how  they  got  the  black  hanging 
away  up  there.  Not  a  sound  except  the  shuffling 
of  thousands  of  people  walking  along  in  line.  Dan's 
mother  still  holds  him  by  the  hand.  Here  it  is  ... 
a  great  pedestal,  all  black — a  great  black  coffin 
.  .  .  soldiers  standing  all  about  .  .  .  Dan 
looks,  into  the  coffin  ...  his  heart  is  pounding 
hard.  His  mother  suddenly  squeezes  his  hand  so 

51 


THE  FORERUNNER 

that  it  hurts.  He  feels  her  trembling  and  sobbing. 
Dan  bursts  into  tears  as  they  are  swept  on  in  the 
crowd.  His  first  sight  of  death,  that  face  is  printed 
on  his  memory  as  by  a  flash  of  light.  He  sees  it  often 
afterward  in  his  sleep. 


John  Devin  got  occupation  running  a  stationary 
engine  in  Mapleton;  but  he  was  not  able  to  keep  it 
long.  The  wound  which  he  had  received  at  the  be 
ginning  of  the  war,  and  which  had  never  entirely 
healed,  soon  disabled  him  completely.  He  lived 
to  see  Grant  elected  President  and  died  before  he 
was  inaugurated.  In  Daniel's  memory  his  father 
remained  as  a  kind  of  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of 
the  war;  doubtless  mainly  because  of  the  way  the 
widow  talked  of  him.  Martha  Devin  impressed 
deeply  on  her  children's  minds  the  fact  that  their 
father  had  given  his  all — his  little  property  and  his 
life — for  his  country.  Patriotism  was  to  her  what 
it  had  been  to  him,  a  religious  emotion.  Her  voice 
would  break  when  she  spoke  of  the  Flag,  as  it  did 
when  she  talked  of  the  silent  patience  with  which 
John  Devin  had  suffered. 

Dan  went  to  work  when  he  was  fifteen  years  old, 
after  he  had  gone  through  the  grammar-school  and 
two  years  of  the  high-school.  He  was  taken  on  as 
office-boy  and  expected  to  make  himself  generally 
useful  in  the  establishment  of  the  Mapleton  Weekly 
Courier.  The  Courier  was  a  Republican  newspaper. 
Dan's  father  had  been  a  Republican.  But  in  .any 
case  Dan  would  naturally  have  been  of  the  party 
which  stood  for  growth,  expansion,  a  positive  and 

55 


THE  FORERUNNER 

active  policy.  At  any  rate,  even  while  he  was  learn 
ing,  among  other  things,  to  set  type  and  gather  items 
of  local  news,  his  practical  faith  was  fixed,  and  he 
never  afterward  departed  from  it.  Wherever  fortune 
led  him  later,  he  was  part  of  the  Republican  machine. 
He  thought  his  party  right  on  almost  every  issue, 
and  almost  every  act  of  it  justified  on  one  plea  or  an 
other;  but  right  or  wrong,  it  was  his  party,  and  loy 
alty  to  it  was  an  article  of  his  extremely  simple  creed. 

His  mother  grieved  so  bitterly  at  the  necessity  for 
his  leaving  school — she  had  dreamed  of  a  complete 
education  and  a  professional  career  for  the  flower  of 
her  family — that  Dan  promised  her  he  would  study 
in  the  evenings,  keep  up  with  his  classes  and  take  the 
examinations,  and  he  did  so.  When  he  was  seventeen 
he  finished  the  high-school  course,  and  his  first  article 
was  published  in  the  paper — an  account  of  the  fire 
which  destroyed  Mr.  Elwood's  house  and  barn  one 
bitter  night  when  the  water  all  but  froze  in  the  hose. 
For  a  time  Dan  considered  himself  dedicated  to  a 
literary  career.  But  having  an  earlier  chance  in  the 
business  department  of  the  newspaper,  he  began  to 
drum  up  advertising  and  job  printing,  and  to  dun 
delinquent  subscribers,  and  this  field  quickly  widened. 

Dan  was  strong  physically  and  full  of  restless  en 
ergy,  which  found  an  outlet  mainly  in  work.  He 
shared,  however,  in  the  town  gayeties — such  as  they 
were — the  beginning  of  the  roller-skating  craze,  an 
occasional  "social"  with  dancing  in  the  rink,  a  debat 
ing  society,  hay-rides  and  buggy  rides  by  moonlight, 
or  a  game  of  cards  very  much  on  the  quiet.  There 
was  plenty  of  more  or  less  innocent  flirtation  going 
on  in  Mapleton.  Dan  had  his  share  of  that;  but  did 

56 


THE   FORERUNNER 

not  often  fall  in  love  with  any  violence,  and  saved 
himself  by  the  ease  with  which  he  fell  out  again.  , 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  suddenly  found  him 
self  business  manager  and  part  owner  of  the  Courier, 
but  this  advancement  was  not  due  entirely  to  his 
own  exertions.  He  had  made  a  powerful  friend  in 
the  person  of  Alvin  Colfax,  the  big  man  of  Mapleton, 
and  the  most  brilliant  lawyer  of  his  time  at  the  Illinois 
bar.  Judge  Colfax,  as  he  was  generally  called,  had 
political  ambitions;  he  had  also  a  strong  belief  in  the 
future  of  Mapleton.  It  was  through  his  efforts  that 
the  railroad  was  brought  there ;  and  he  further  showed 
his  faith  by  building  a  house  that  is  still  the  show- 
place  of  the  town — an  imposing  edifice  of  red  brick 
and  white  stone,  with  broad  lawns  about  it,  an  elab 
orate  iron  fence  to  shut  it  off  from  the  street,  and  at 
the  rear  a  large  coach-house  and  stables,  surmounted 
by  a  cupola  and  a  gilt  horse. 

It  was  the  Judge's  idea  that  Mapleton  would  grow 
up  to  this  house;  and  he  predicted  freely  that  the 
days  of  Rockford,  the  county  seat,  were  numbered. 
Naturally,  the  Mapleton  Courier  would  increase  in 
importance  in  direct  ratio;  and  even  now  it  was 
•worth  while  as  an  organ  for  an  aspiring  Congressman. 
The  Judge  forthwith  acquired  a  controlling  interest 
in  the  paper,  and  then  began  his  friendship  for  Dan. 
He  liked  the  young  fellow  from  the  start — his  good 
looks,  his  temperament,  his  energy  and  ambition. 
And  the  sincere  admiration  which  Dan  gave  to  the 
Judge  gratified  a  deep  need  in  the  elder  man.  Judge 
Colfax  required  followers,  disciples,  personal  homage ; 
and  he  preferred  young  men,  because  with  these  such 
a  relation  involved  no  kind  of  servility.  The  Judge 

57 


THE   FORERUNNER 

wanted  to  be  the  leader  in  his  society,  but  he  did  not 
like  associating  with  his  inferiors.  Furthermore  the 
quality  of  youth  was  a  delight  to  him — he  loved  what 
was  expanding,  growing,  alive.  Dan  pleased  him  in 
their  first  interview,  and  was  immediately  asked  to 
dinner.  The  Judge  dined  at  six  o'  clock,  whereas 
the  accustomed  hour  of  Mapleton  was  twelve  noon; 
and  there  were  many  stories  afloat  in  the  town  of 
the  Lucullian  luxury  of  these  feasts. 

Judge  Colfax  did  like  good  living  and  he  was  served 
well.  Moreover,  he  was  a  rich  man,  as  the  times 
went;  worth,  it  was  reputed,  between  thirty  and 
forty  thousand  dollars,  besides  the  income  from  his 
practice.  He  was  a  bachelor;  and  Dan  was  over 
come  to  find  how  elaborate  a  meal  could  be  thought 
necessary  for  two  men.  He  had  his  first  taste  of  wine 
at  the  Judge's  table  that  night;  and  went  away  at 
ten  o'clock,  intoxicated,  not  by  the  Burgundy,  of 
which  he  had  been  sparing,  but  by  his  host's  talk, 
and  the  whole  atmosphere  of  ease,  power,  and  com 
mand  that  surrounded  him.  Dan  walked  far  out 
into  the  country,  in  a  kind  of  trance  of  enjoyment 
and  desire  that  was  half  pain.  He  had  no  doubt  that 
he,  too,  should  be  successful — that  he  should  be  in 
time  some  such  man  as  Judge  Colfax  was — but 
what  an  interval  lay  between! 

In  the  months  that  followed  Dan  spent  an  increas 
ing  amount  of  time  with  the  Judge.  He  was  invited 
to  dinner  very  frequently.  Judge  Colfax  taught  him 
to  play  billiards,  gave  him  the  run  of  his  library,  and 
would  discourse  to  him  by  the  hour  of  his  experiences 
and  observations  of  men  and  things,  of  politics  and 
the  state  of  the  country,  of  love,  war,  and  fortune. 

58 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Very  often  in  these  soliloquies  the  Judge  would  be 
drunk,  but  he  was  eloquent  in  his  cups.  His  vanity 
came  out  more  plainly  then ;  and  a  certain  grandi 
ose,  rather  flamboyant,  quality  about  him  was  more 
marked.  He  was  apt,  moreover,  to  be  exceedingly 
profane ;  but  there  was  nothing  worse  in  him,  though 
Mapleton  privately  held  that  Dan  was  going  to  the 
dogs  because  of  the  Judge's  taking  him  up.  Maple- 
ton  was  proud  of  its  great  man,  but  at  the  same  time 
loved  to  spread  scandal  about  him.  Dan  was  called 
a  beggar  on  horseback  and  was  abused  for  being 
"more  close-mouthed  than  ever."  But  his  apparent 
reserve  was  more  than  anything  else  the  solitude  of 
soul  that  is  the  penalty  of  the  seer  of  visions — 
whether  visionary  or  not.  To  Judge  Colfax,  who 
understood,  Dan  poured  out  his  whole  mind  and 
heart.  He  continued  to  be  careful  of  the  unwonted 
wine,  but  it  had  its  effect  on  him,  no  doubt.  The 
truth  of  him  came  out  also  in  those  long  evenings, 
spent  in  the  Judge's  library  or  billiard-room.  And 
the  truth  of  Dan  at  that  time  was  leaping  ambition 
which  was  not  sure  of  its  goal;  many  fine  dreams, 
bright  but  blurred  and  vague;  a  great  amount  of 
emotion,  easily  stirred  by  sounding  words;  and  a 
generous  sweetness  of  nature,  with  the  best  intentions 
in  the  world.  If  Dan  did  you  harm,  it  would  most 
likely  be  from  over-confidence  in  his  own  ability, 
plans,  or  the  promises  of  somebody  else.  He  had  a 
natural  belief  in  the  best  that  could  happen;  a  dis 
inclination  to  look  on  the  darker  side  of  anybody  or 
anything. 

For  Judge  Colfax  he  had  an  entire  loyalty  which 
saw  no  blemish  in  its  idol,  and  which  longed  heartily 

59 


THE   FORERUNNER 

for  an  opportunity  to  do  him  service.  When  he 
was  taken  into  the  Judge's  confidence,  and  shown 
how  he  could  really  help  the  Judge's  ambition,  Dan 
fairly  trod  on  air.  He  was  not  absolutely  disinter 
ested;  naturally  it  was  part  of  Judge  Coif  ax's  power 
over  him,  that  he  saw  his  own  advancement  in  the 
Judge's  friendship.  Nor  was  he  mistaken  in  this 
confidence.  On  his  twenty-first  birthday  the  Judge 
gave  him  an  interest  in  the  Courier  and  told  him 
that  he  meant  to  watch  over  his  career  and  to  leave 
him  half  his  property;  in  the  meantime,  if  he  needed 
money  he  was  to  consider  that  he  might  draw  in  ad 
vance. 

"I  sha'n't  marry,  Dan,"  the  Judge  said.  "I'm  an 
old  fellow  now" — he  was  forty- two — "at  least  for 
that  kind  of  thing.  I'm  well  past  the  age  when  ad 
venture  tempts  for  its  own  sake ;  I  see  the  shoals  and 
reefs  where  you  see  the  sirens,  as  Thackeray  says. 
The  fact  is,  I  was  born  a  generation  too  soon.  I  can't 
help  being  conservative — it's  in  the  blood  of  my  con 
founded  New  England  ancestors,  who  never  in  their 
lives  lived  up  to  their  incomes  or  forgot  their  lawful 
wives.  They  left  me  a  conscience,  Dan,  which  warned 
me  off  from  matrimony;  it  gave  me  such  a  high 
idea  of  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  the  married 
state  that  I  avoided  it  as  the  plague.  In  my  younger 
days  when  I  found  I  was  getting  interested  in  a  girl 
I  used  to  pack  up  and  leave  town  at  once.  I  always 
found  a  few  weeks'  absence  a  specific.  Then  when 
I  came  back  some  other  fellow  would  be  courting  the 
girl,  for  of  course  it  was  only  the  pretty  ones  that  at 
tracted  me.  You  might  think  I  would  be  jealous 
—bless  you,  no.  My  only  thought  was,  'Thank 

60 


THE  FORERUNNER 

heaven  she  is  provided  for.'  If  one  of  the  jades  had 
had  the  art  to  pretend  I  had  jilted  her,  or  to  wear  the 
willow  for  even  a  month,  I  can't  answer  for  the  con 
sequences.  I  dare  say  my  infernal  conscience  might 
have  driven  me  to  marry  her  in  spite  of  all.  But, 
praised  be  feminine  stupidity,  they  all  tried  the  same 
game — flaunting  the  new  beau  in  my  face.  And, 
as  I  said,  it  worked  to  a  charm. 

"But  don't  think  I  admire  that  kind  of  caution. 
That  perpetual  afterthought  is  like  a  string  tied  to  a 
man's  leg.  It  gives  him  a  ridiculous  gait,  until  he 
learns  to  resign  himself  to  the  inevitable.  No,  I  hate 
canniness.  But  it's  forced  upon  me  by  those  old 
Puritan  Colfaxes  who  thought  so  much  of  their 
damned  descent  that  it's  a  righteous  judgment  on 
them  to  have  the  family  come  to  an  end  through 
their  godliness. 

"I  envy  you,  Dan.  You're  foot-loose.  You've 
got  the  country  before  you  where  to  choose — I  don't 
say  the  world,  for  this  country  is  world  enough  for 
me  or  any  man.  By  George,  how  it  broadens  out! 
I  and  my  generation  are  the  end  of  the  old  order 
of  things;  you're  the  beginning  of  the  new.  I'm 
doomed,  I  think,  to  die  in  this  place.  I  don't  look 
farther  afield  than  Washington.  The  rest  of  my  life 
will  be  spent  in  the  kind  of  thing  that  I'm  already 
more  or  less  familiar  with.  Public  life  and  politics 
offer  no  real  novelty  to  me.  And  I  wish  it  to  be  so. 
I've  no  spirit  for  untried  fields,  any  more  than  I  have 
the  will  to  transport  my  unwieldy  corporeal  frame 
to  the  Californian  placers. 

"But  you  young  men — you'll  inherit  the  earth! 
We  shall  grow  fast  now,  Dan.  People  are  beginning 

61 


THE   FORERUNNER 

to  see  what  the  war  has  done  for  us,  now  that  they've 
done  counting  their  dead,  and  stopped  worrying 
about  the  niggers.  Look  to  the  West!  Do  you 
know,  I  think  that's  the  place  for  you.  I've  been 
studying  over  you  a  good  deal,  my  son.  I  don't 
think  Maple  ton's  going  to  hold  you." 

Dan  broke  in  here,  though  usually  when  the  Judge 
took  this  contemplative  attitude  and  tone,  stretched 
out  in  his  big  easy-chair  before  the  library  fire,  with 
his  cigar  between  his  teeth  and  the  whiskey  and 
water  at  his  elbow,  the  young  man  was  content  to 
hold  his  peace  and  listen. 

"It  will  hold  me  as  long  as  you're  here,  sir,"  he 
said  with  a  little  quaver  in  his  voice. 

"I  used  to  think  so,  Dan,"  the  Judge  turned  an 
affectionate  look  upon  him.  "But  I've  changed  my 
mind  about  Mapleton  in  the  last  year.  I  think  now 
that  she's  out  of  the  current — it  sweeps  round  her, 
Dan,  and  you  and  I  together  can't  change  its  course. 
I  begin  to  think  that  Mapleton  will  be  left  high  and 
dry,  or  at  least  stuck  in  the  mud — which  is  a  more 
appropriate  figure.  You've  done  a  lot  with  the 
Courier,  and  I  know  you're  looking  forward  to  doing 
a  lot  more,  but  I  think  you'll  be  wasted  here.  You 
can't  make  a  big  newspaper  in  a  one-horse  town,  and 
that's  what  Mapleton  is  and  I  believe  is  going  to  be. 
And  the  reason?  Look  at  the  young  men.  Are 
they  staying  here  and  helping  to  build  the  place  up? 
Not  much.  They're  going  to  Chicago,  or  they're 
going  West.  The  leaven  is  working.  They  see  big 
things  ahead  of  them.  They're  right.  Mapleton 
is  just  half-way  to  nowhere.  She  has  all  the  con 
servatism  of  the  East  and  none  of  its  hustle.  In  a 

62 


THE   FORERUNNER 

few  years  she'll  be  simply  an  adjunct  to  the  ceme 
teries.  You'd  have  seen  this  too,  Dan,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  me.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  it." 

Dan  nodded.  "Some thing  like  it.  I've  thought 
some  about  the  West,  too,  of  course,  seeing  so  many 
of  the  fellows  go;  but  I  thought  the  paper  needn't 
depend  entirely  on  Mapleton.  And  somehow  the 
place  seems  pretty  big  to  me  while  you're  here.  And 
when  you  are  in  Congress  you  may  still  want  the 
Courier " 

"That's  all  right,  Dan,  but  you're  not  to  be  simply 
a  help  to  my  career,  if  I  have  any.  And  I  don't  be 
lieve  that  your  field  is  politics.  You  don't  pull  well 
with  other  men — you  can't  adapt  your  stroke  to 
theirs.  I've  noticed  that  in  the  business.  That's 
one  reason  why  I  wanted  to  make  you  independent 
as  long  as  you  stay  with  the  Courier.  After  the 
election  you'll  sell  your  interest — I'll  buy  it  if  nobody 
else  will — and  that  will  give  you  a  little  money  to 
start  in  with  out  there." 

The  quick  tears  sprang  to  Dan's  eyes — he  was 
thus  easily  moved  by  kindness  from  those  he  loved 
— and  he  was  speechless  for  the  moment.  Judge 
Colfax  was  looking  into  the  fire,  his  large  gray  eyes, 
under  their  bushy  brows,  fixed  and  meditative.  Ap 
parently  that  moment  he  ceased  to  be  aware  of  Dan. 

"A  new  world  to  conquer — a  new  wilderness,"  he 
murmured.  "Not  with  the  pick  and  spade  and  axe 
— Kentucky  has  seen  the  last  of  that — but  by  sheer 
brains.  A  new  kind  of  pioneer,  with  the  civilization 
of  the  East  back  of  him,  with  the  railroad  to  follow 
him.  The  best  of  us,  our  youth,  will  organize  the 
new  country.  Bring  the  Chinese  to  lay  the  ties  and 

63 


THE   FORERUNNER 

work  in  the  fields;  ship  the  European  peasants  west 
to  dig  in  the  mines;  and  we  will  gather  up  the  gold 
in  both  hands,  and  heap  it  up  millions  on  millions, 
and  build  up  with  it  the  Empire  of  the  world. 

"Now  is  the  golden  time.  The  big  chances  lie 
there,  as  the  gold  nuggets  did,  for  the  first  comer  to 
pick  up.  The  next  had  to  wash  their  gold  out  of 
the  streams  grain  by  grain.  Now  you  must  dig  for 
it,  pulverize  the  rock.  So  it  is  with  the  big  fortunes. 
To  be  first  on  the  ground — that  is  the  thing.  To  be 
the  scout,  the  picket  out  in  advance — before  the  main 
army  comes  down  with  its  tread  of  ten  thousand " 

The  Judge  sighed  and  cut  short  his  musings,  turn 
ing  to  fill  his  glass. 

"Take  some  whiskey,  Dan,  and  let's  drink  to  your 
good  fortune." 


On  the  eve  of  the  election  Judge  Colfax  suffered 
a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  and  after  lingering  unconscious 
for  three  days,  he  died.  No  will  could  be  found.  A 
left-handed  wife  and  family  appeared  from  Chicago 
and  a  brother  from  Boston  to  claim  his  property, 
and  eventually  divided  it  between  them,  the  brother 
taking  as  part  of  his  share  the  Courier  stock.  The 
big  brick  house  was  shut  up,  no  one  rich  enough  to 
rent  or  buy  it  choosing  to  live  in  Mapleton.  Dan 
sold  his  interest  to  Joshua  Colfax — a  dry  man  with 
a  hard  gray  eye — for  a  good  deal  less  than  it  was 
worth.  But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  drive  a  bargain, 
and  wanted  simply  to  get  away  from  Mapleton.  A 
few  months  before  he  had  had  the  offer  from  Frank 

64 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Emmons  to  go  into  orange-ranching  in  California.  Em- 
mons  warned  him  that  the  country  was  by  no  means 
all  that  it  had  been  painted;  still  there  were  oppor 
tunities,  and  above  all  it  had  a  climate  that  a  man 
could  live  in.  Dan  had  replied  saying  that  he  could 
not  leave  Mapleton  for  six  months,  and  very  likely 
should  stay  there  indefinitely.  When  the  Judge 
died  he  telegraphed  Emmons,  and  finding  the  offer 
still  open,  telegraphed  again,  accepting  it.  He  had 
about  eighteen  hundred  dollars  to  take  with  him. 
It  was  a  plunge — but  Dan  was  then  in  the  mood  for 
plunging.  It  was  his  first  plunge,  but — temperament 
and  chance  playing  in  with  one  another — by  no 
means  his  last. 

In  his  grief  he  thought,  it  must  be  confessed,  very 
little  about  his  family;  as,  for  that  matter,  he  had 
done  for  some  time.  He  had  continued  to  live  at 
home;  and  his  mother  and  the  two  younger  children 
and  Elmira,  the  older  girl,  who  had  not  married,  had 
had  the  benefit  of  his  good  fortune.  But  they  had 
not  shared  his  life.  His  mother,  who  grew  sharper 
and  more  rigid  with  age,  once  angered  him  deeply 
by  repeating  an  unpleasant  story  about  the  Judge, 
of  whom,  on  hearsay,  and  with  a  bias  of  maternal 
jealousy,  she  disapproved.  From  that  time  he 
ceased  to  talk  about  the  Judge  at  home,  and  spent 
less  and  less  time  there.  And  now  there  was  no  tie 
that  he  dreaded  to  break. 

He  thought  that  the  only  memories  of  Mapleton 
he  should  carry  away  were  of  his  father  and  of  Judge 
Coif  ax.  He  never  saw  the  town  again.  But  it  had 
impressed  itself  upon  him  more  deeply  than  he 
thought.  All  his  life  some  detail  of  it  would  keep 

65 


THE   FORERUNNER 

rising  up — the  war-time  happenings,  the  looks  of 
some  village  sweetheart,  a  hunt  for  snipe  in  the 
marshes,  the  deep  thick  black  mud  of  the  roads,  the 
gas-lit  streets  with  their  wooden  sidewalks  and  over 
hanging  maples,  and  loafers  on  the  corners;  Mr.  El- 
wood's  pond,  where  he  skated  as  a  small  boy ;  maple- 
sugar  time  in  the  spring,  when  the  trees  in  their  front 
yard  would  be  pierced,  and  the  sweet  sap  collected 
in  tin  pails,  to  be  boiled  down  afterward  in  a  huge 
black  kettle;  the  cemetery  where  his  father  was 
buried,  and  where  they  laid  the  Judge,  with  a  great 
gray  granite  sarcophagus  over  him  to  keep  him  down  ; 
the  very  air  and  smell  of  the  prairie,  with  its  per 
petual  low  hanging  vapors — its  freezing  cold,  its  moist, 
sticky  heat;  the  long  line  of  wild  geese  stretching 
across  the  gray  sky,  and  their  harsh,  melancholy 
cries  as  they  fled  away  south. 


66 


V. 

r|\EN  days  after  the  sale  had  put  twenty  thou- 
-*•  sand  dollars  to  Dan's  credit  in  the  bank,  and 
given  him  notes  for  forty  thousand  more,  he  mar 
ried  Anna.  The  wedding  was  as  quiet  as  possible. 
Anna's  father  performed  the  ceremony  in  the  little 
parlor  of  her  home.  The  only  witnesses  were  Mrs. 
Quartermain,  who  wept  throughout,  and  Herwin,  a 
young  fellow  inheriting  his  mother's  plainness  along 
with  enough  temperament  to  send  him  far  on  the 
road  to  physical  ruin.  Herwin's  Prince  Albert  coat 
and  white  tie,  together  with  the  brilliance  of  the 
noonday  sun  that  filled  the  room,  emphasized  his  sal 
low  frailness.  Mrs.  Quartermain,  in  her  worn  black 
silk,  with  reddened  nose  and  eyes,  came  no  better 
off;  and  the  minister  looked  wan  and  shadowy  in 
the  flood  of  light.  But  the  bridal  pair  shone  all  the 
brighter  by  contrast. 

Anna  wore  her  new  blue  travelling  dress  and  a  hat 
with  a  sweeping  blue  feather.  She  wore  also  the 
bridegroom's  present,  a  watch  and  chain,  the  watch- 
case  set  with  diamonds  in  the  form  of  a  star;  and 
carried  his  bouquet,  a  huge  affair  of  roses  and  white 
violets.  She  looked  radiantly  happy.  It  was  Dan 
who  was  grave,  whose  voice  trembled  at  the  solem 
nity  of  his  promises;  he  looked  straight  into  Anna's 
eyes  when  he  said,  "And  thereto  I  plight  thee  my 

67 


THE   FORERUNNER 

troth,"  whereas  Anna,  when  she  repeated  the  words, 
looked  at  the  floor. 

It  was  astonishingly  brief,  both  felt;  nor  was  there 
much  time  to  be  emotional  afterward.  The  carriage 
was  at  the  door;  Anna  hurried  the  leave-taking, 
and  the  new-married  pair  were  off,  with  a  shower  of 
rice  from  Herwin's  nervous  hand  spending  itself 
against  the  panels. 

They  were  bound  to  San  Francisco  for  a  two  weeks' 
honeymoon;  then  they  were  to  come  back  to  the 
house  Dan  had  rented  and  furnished  in  accordance 
with  Anna's  wish.  Later  they  would  build  to  suit 
themselves.  The  house  was  a  large  new  one,  of  wood, 
on  one  of  the  principal  streets.  The  two  servants 
were  already  installed,  and  Mrs.  Quartermain  was  to 
stay  there  until  their  return.  Dan  had  been  lavish 
in  his  buying;  everything  was  in  the  latest  fashion 
and  expensive.  There  were  a  few  handsome  pres 
ents,  too,  silver  or  bric-a-brac,  from  his  business 
friends  or  associates;  and  some  others  which  mainly 
expressed  good-will.  From  Dan's  mother  came,  but 
not  in  time  for  his  wedding-day,  a  letter  to  the  bride 
and  a  lace  handkerchief.  Mr.  Stoneman  sent  a  gilt 
spoon  with  a  green  stone  set  in  the  handle.  Mary 
Emmons  sent  half  a  dozen  teaspoons,  a  cherished 
heirloom,  which  Dan  recollected  well.  From  the 
bride's  parents  came  another  family  treasure — a  sil 
ver  loving-cup,  which  had  come  overseas  with  the 
Cornwall  Quartermains  in  the  last  century.  Herwin 
sent  two  dozen  new  silver  forks  from  one  of  the  jewel 
lers  in  town;  which,  Anna  reflected,  her  mother  would 
have  to  pay  for,  if,  indeed,  they  ever  were  paid  for 
at  all. 

68 


THE  FORERUNNER 

But  now  at  last  she  could  put  all  the  discomforts 
and  annoyances  of  poverty  behind  her.  For  a  fort 
night  she  felt  like  a  princess.  Their  rooms  at  the 
Palace  Hotel,  the  carriage  and  horses  hired  for  their 
stay,  the  best  seats  at  the  theatres,  the  elaborate 
meals,  the  rushing  to  and  fro  and  profound  salaams 
of  the  liberally  feed  servants,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
the  shopping,  made  up  a  delicious  whirl  of  luxury 
and  excitement  which  she  would  have  liked  to  last 
forever.  She  enjoyed  every  moment  of  these  ex 
peditions,  even  the  long  drives  about  the  windy  city, 
out  to  the  Cliff  House  and  into  the  environs,  which 
were  Dan's  suggestion;  while,  for  his  part,  Dan  en 
joyed  the  shopping  as  much  as  anything.  He  bought 
for  Anna  a  crescent  and  a  marquise  ring  of  diamonds; 
and  she  ordered  a  complete  winter  outfit  of  dresses, 
hats,  and  furs  from  an  expensive  house. 

Dan  knew  a  few  people  in  San  Francisco— news 
paper  men  and  politicians — but  it  did  not  occur  to 
him  to  look  them  up  for  any  social  purpose.  His 
happiness  was  restless,  absorbed  in  itself — it  was  half 
pain.  Yet  it  was  happiness,  for  he  felt  that  his  life 
with  Anna  must  work  out  into  simplicity  and  peace. 
She  would  come  to  understand  him  and  to  love  him, 
though  not  perhaps  as  he  loved  her;  and  meantime 
he  must  have  patience.  She  trusted  him  and  was 
fond  of  him  already.  In  their  little  excursions  she 
was  delightfully  gay;  in  all  their  lighter  moments 
together  completely  at  her  ease,  evidently  happy. 
It  was  true  that  she  much  preferred  gayety  to  emo 
tion,  but  that  was  natural  enough.  Natural,  too, 
that  she  should  be  a  little  frightened,  even  repelled, 
by  the  completeness  and  intensity  with  which  Dan's 

69 


THE  FORERUNNER 

love  possessed  him.  He  wanted  to  abandon  himself, 
to  be  simple  as  a  child  with  her;  and  that  instinctive 
appeal  to  maternal  tenderness  failed.  Anna  herself 
wanted  a  firm  support.  She  could  not  adjust  herself 
yet  to  perceive,  much  less  to  satisfy,  claims  upon  her 
own  strength. 

By  the  end  of  the  fortnight,  however,  she  had  per 
fectly  adjusted  herself  to  the  forms  of  her  new  life. 
The  novelty  of  being  rich  had  worn  off,  though  not 
the  naive  enjoyment.  She  still  thought  more  of 
what  she  had  than  of  what  she  would  like  to  have; 
and,  for  that  matter,  it  was  her  disposition  to  live  in 
the  present  whenever  the  present  was  at  all  tolera 
ble;  just  as  it  was  Dan's  to  live  in  the  future.  Anna 
still  got  a  keen  thrill  of  pleasure  out  of  every  dress, 
hat,  and  trinket  as  she  put  it  on;  out  of  every  ad 
miring  glance  cast  at  her,  and  these  were  many.  Her 
taste  was,  like  Dan's,  for  striking  and  sumptuous  ef 
fects.  Her  dresses  were  all  of  heavy  cloth,  silk  or 
velvet,  in  rich  colors,  some  of  them  trimmed  with 
fur,  all  in  elaborate  designs.  All  her  hats  were  large, 
with  drooping  feathers  or  velvet  flowers.  Her  tall 
figure  thus  richly  dressed,  her  young  face  blooming 
like  a  rose,  her  blond  hair  and  dark  eyes,  could  not 
but  attract  attention.  And  Anna  had  not  yet  got  to 
the  point  of  taking  those  delightful  new  possessions 
as  a  matter  of  course.  She  expected  always  to  have 
them;  but  remembrance  of  the  time  when  she  had 
nothing  except  her  beauty  made  her  keenly  conscious 
of  clothes  and  setting. 

The  day  before  they  were  to  leave  for  Los  Angeleg 
came  the  first  real  break  in  her  pleasures.  Dan,  in 
the  morning,  left  Anna  at  her  dressmaker's,  saying 

70 


THE   FORERUNNER 

that  he  had  some  business  to  see  to,  but  would  be 
back  to  lunch.  In  the  afternoon  they  were  going 
for  a  farewell  drive.  Anna  waited  at  the  hotel  from 
one  till  two,  then  came  a  delayed  telephone  message 
from  Dan.  Business  detained  him;  he  would  lunch 
where  he  was  and  might  not  be  back  much  before 
dinner.  She  must  go  on  and  take  her  drive  without 
him. 

She  ate  her  luncheon  without  much  taste  for  it, 
though  the  long  wait  after  the  morning's  tussle  with 
the  wind  had  made  her  feel  rather  faint.  After 
luncheon  there  was  really  nothing  to  do.  She  decided 
promptly  that  she  wouldn't  drive.  The  day  was  un 
pleasant,  threatening  rain,  and  she  knew  by  heart, 
she  thought,  all  the  streets  through  which  they  usually 
drove — the  main  residence  streets,  where  stood  the 
stone  palaces  whose  like  Anna  expected  to  possess 
some  day.  She  began  a  yellow-backed  novel,  but 
found  it  dull;  wrote  two  letters,  to  her  mother  and 
to  Elise  Andrews,  her  one  girl  chum,  filled  with  glow 
ing  accounts  of  herself;  tried  on  her  newest  dresses 
with  all  her  diamonds;  and  finally  relapsed  on  the 
bed  in  a  dressing-gown,  where  Dan  found  her  crying 
when  he  came  in  at  six  o'clock. 

He  was  first  terrified,  then  mystified;  and  had  his 
primer  lesson  in  consoling  an  injury  which  he  could 
not  for  his  life  understand.  Dan  had  almost  never 
been  bored;  certainly  never  without  some  definite 
cause  that  action  would  remove.  Nerves  he  had 
himself,  and  he  was  rapidly  accustoming  them  to 
need  and  demand  excitement;  but  he  could  not  com 
prehend  feminine  nerves  in  the  same  condition.  If 
he  had  ever  heard  the  old  word  "vapors"  applied  to 

71 


THE  FORERUNNER 

such  a  state  of  things  it  would  have  seemed  to  him 
very  suitable.  He  was  befogged  himself;  the  griev 
ances  that  Anna  alleged  did  not  strike  him  as  tangi 
ble.  Why  should  she  be  offended  with  him?  He  had 
sent  the  telephone  message  before  one  o'clock.  Cer 
tainly  he  would  blow  up  the  hotel  people,  but . 

But  he  couldn't  get  away.  He  had  to  see  these  men 
and  arrange  some  important  political  matters  with 
them,  and  he  had  been  busy  all  day.  She  ought  to 
have  gone  out.  If  she  didn't  want  to  drive  she  should 
have  done  something  else.  What?  Well,  anything. 
Anything  except  cry  like  a  baby  and  spoil  her  looks. 

At  this  point  Dan  had  to  change  his  tactics.  A 
fresh  burst  of  hysterical  tears  warned  him  not  to  rea 
son  further.  He  won  her  back  to  calmness,  finally, 
by  abasing  himself  as  a  careless  brute,  who  was  en 
tirely  at  fault,  and  humbly  begged  her  pardon.  They 
were  reconciled,  dined  in  their  own  sitting-room,  and 
Dan  demonstratively  declared  that  the  marks  of 
tears  only  made  Anna  more  attractive.  It  was  true, 
for  him;  he  welcomed  any  sign  of  emotion  in  her  far 
more  deeply  than  he  could  be  disturbed  by  it.  He 
had  not  reasoned  it  out;  but  he  knew  that  unless  she 
were  deeply  moved  she  would  not  love  him,  and  if 
she  did  not  love  him  their  life  together  would  be 
neither  peaceful  nor  happy.  It  was  not  only  patience 
that  he  needed.  He  could  see  now  that  there  were 
storms  ahead. 

However,  they  travelled  back  in  very  friendly 
fashion  to  their  new  home.  Anna  was  delighted  with 
its  prettiness  and  comfort;  delighted  for  once  to  see 
her  family  and  to  distribute  her  gifts.  She  had 
brought  a  pattern  of  heavy  black  silk  for  her  mother, 

72 


THE   FORERUNNER 

and  a  dressing-gown  with  Chinese  embroidery  for  her 
father;  and  a  silver  vinaigrette  for  Elise.  To  these 
three,  also,  she  exhibited  all  her  new  treasures.  Dan 
had  bought  a  grand  piano  for  her;  and  when,  the 
evening  of  their  return,  after  they  had  dined  alone, 
Dan  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  dusky  drawing-room  smok 
ing,  while  Anna  sang  his  favorite  songs — "Auld  Lang 
Syne/'  'The  Suwanee  River"  and  " Annie  Laurie" 
— both  felt  the  homely  sweetness  of  it  all.  Dan  was 
moved  beyond  placid  contentment;  forsook  his  cigar, 
got  up  and  put  his  arms  about  Anna,  saying,  with  the 
thrill  in  his  voice  that  she  almost  dreaded,  "You're  a 
thousand  times  too  good  for  me,  dearest.  I  don't 
deserve  you." 

" You're  a  silly  boy,"  she  tried  to  laugh  it  off.  "I'm 
not  good  at  all,  you'll  find  out." 

"All  women  are  good,"  said  the  infatuated  man. 
"They're  good  by  nature,  and  men  are  naturally  bad. 
No  man  deserves  a  really  good  woman  like  you,  dear 
est.  When  I  think  of  you,  living  peacefully  in  your 
home,  sweet  and  innocent  as  you  are,  and  being  good 
and  kind  to  me,  you  seem  to  me  like — an  angel." 

She  felt  his  cheek  against  hers  wet  with  tears. 

"Oh,  please  don't,"  she  cried.     "I  don't  like  you 
to  say  such  things.     I'm  not  an  angel,  and  I  don't       \ 
want  to  be,  not  a  bit.     I'd  like  to  be  rather  wicked." 

This  confession  came  out  headlong,  in  the  kind  of 
panic  that  possessed  her  whenever  Dan  on  his  part 
made  an  approach  to  confession.  She  knew  that 
there  were  things  in  Dan's  life  that  he  regretted — 
knew  vaguely  that  "men  did"  those  things — but  she 
did  not  want  to  know  more  definitely  what  Dan  had 
done.  Impulse  urged  Dan  to  pour  it  all  out  to  her, 

73 


THE  FORERUNNER 

and  be  absolved;  but  he  had  never  done  it,  his  in 
stinct  as  well  as  hers  preventing.  He  felt  that  most 
likely  he  should  not  get  absolution  from  her.  Anna 
had  a  kind  of  hatred  of  the  whole  subject.  She  was 
afraid  to  know  how  much  Dan  had — as  she  thought 
of  it — degraded  himself.  And  an  obscure  jealousy, 
more  powerful  in  her  than  any  other  instinct,  would 
shake  her  at  times  with  physical  repugnance.  Dan, 
feeling  this  reluctance  in  her  to  let  him  talk  freely, 
revered  it  as  true  womanly  innocence,  and  would  re 
tire  abashed — but  with  an  ache  at  his  heart.  His 
ideal  woman  had  this  snowy  purity,  which  would  not 
defile  itself  by  even  the  knowledge  of  evil ;  and  he 
held  that  she  need  not  and  ought  not  to  know  man's 
life  in  its  completeness.  And  yet  the  feeling  that 
there  were  things  he  dared  not  tell  Anna  chilled  him ; 
it  seemed  to  make  a  distance,  almost  a  barrier,  be 
tween  them.  If  only  she  could  have  seen  him  at  his 
worst,  and  forgiven,  and  loved! 

But  Anna's  diversion  was  successful. 

"You  wicked!"  he  said  fondly.  "You  couldn't  be 
if  you  tried — you  haven't  the  faintest  idea  of  it.  Tell 
me,  how  would  you  begin?" 

"Oh "     Anna  was  at  a  loss  for  a  moment.     She 

did  not  want  to  shock  him.  "I  mean  to  be  frivolous, 
gay,  don't  you  know?  To  go  out  a  lot,  dance,  play 
cards,  entertain,  and  have  punch  on  the  sideboard, 
and  champagne,  and — well,  that's  all,  I  guess." 

Dan  laughed. 

"Well,  I  guess  we  can  manage  that!  And  without 
being  very  wicked,  either." 

"I  hope  we  shall  know  a  good  many  people.  Your 
friends  will  come  to  see  us  soon,  won't  they?" 

74 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  yes,  they  will — as  soon  as  we  want  them. 
But  I  don't  know  so  very  many.  Mostly  men,  in  a 
business  way." 

"But" —  here  Anna  touched  that  further  desire 
of  hers  which  she  thought  might  displease  her  hus 
band — "some  of  the  men  are  nice,  aren't  they?  Why 
shouldn't  they  come?" 

"They  will,  I  dare  say,  if  we  ask  'em.  But  why 
talk  about  them  to-night?" 

"Oh,  no  reason.  I  don't  suppose  anybody  will 
come  to-night." 

"Well,  I  should  hope  not,"  Dan  protested. 

Anna  rose  from  the  piano-stool  and,  her  hand 
clasped  in  his,  drew  him  after  her  to  the  window. 
Without  was  a  dense  white  fog.  Even  the  lights  of 
the  cable-cars,  passing  in  the  street,  thirty  feet  away, 
were  invisible,  though  the  clanging  of  their  gongs 
could  be  heard. 

"I  hope  Mrs.  Goodwin  will  call  on  me,"  said  Anna, 
dreamily.  "And  I  suppose  she  will,  since  she  sent  a 
present,  don't  you?" 

Mrs.  Goodwin  was  the  wife  of  a  banker,  and  one 
of  the  patronesses  of  everything  that  happened 
in  paragraphed  society,  from  a  ball  to  a  church 
fair. 

"I  suppose  so.    Are  you  tired  of  me  already?" 

"You  absurd  man!  You're  not  going  to  spend  all 
your  time  with  me,  are  you?" 

"No I'm  afraid  not." 

"Well,  then,  I  must  have  some  amusement." 

"You  shall  have  all  you  want — if  you'll  stay  alone 
with  me  part  of  the  time — and  always  like  me  better 
than  anybody." 

75 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Oh — of  course.  But  you  want  other  people  to 
admire  me,  too,  don't  you?7' 

A  pause.  "I  suppose  so — but  not  too  much/'  said 
Dan,  with  a  proprietary  kiss. 

"Too  much?  How  could  they  admire  me  too 
much?"  She  spread  out  her  arms  and  waltzed  across 
the  floor,  into  the  back  parlor.  "Come  here  a  min 
ute — I'll  show  you  something." 

She  turned  up  the  gas,  opened  her  little  mahogany 
desk,  and  held  out  a  handful  of  papers  to  him.  Dan 
looked  them  over  bewilder ingly. 

"Can't  make  'em  out,"  he  said. 

"Why,  those  are  menus  for  dinners,  can't  you  see? 
And  this  is  a  list  of  all  the  people  we  know  that  I'd 
like  to  invite.  And  this  is  a  plan  for  a  musicale  and 
supper.  And  these  are  things  I  want  to  subscribe 
to — the  Friday  cotillions " 

"But  I  can't  dance." 

"You  needn't.  You  look  awfully  handsome  in 
full  dress,  and  you  can  be  a  wall-flower.  And  I'm 
going  to  join  all  the  clubs  I  can " 

Dan  whistled.  "Well,  you  do  want  to  cut  a 
swath!" 

"I  want  some  fun.    Oh,  Dan,  I  do  want  it  awfully !" 

Dan  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Then  you  shall  have  it — as  long  as  the  bank  holds 
out." 

"But  we're  going  to  be  rich,  aren't  we — really  rich?" 

"I  hope  so.    Some  day." 

"Oh,  soon!" 

"Soon"  was  the  thought  of  most  of  the  population 
of  the  city  at  that  time.  To  be  rich,  if  not  to-day,  at 

76 


THE  FORERUNNER 

least  to-morrow,  was  the  general  expectation;  and 
practically  to-day  was  to-morrow,  since  credit  was 
easy  to  get.  The  " to-morrow"  of  the  old  Calif  or- 
nians  who  had  founded  the  town  was  a  distant  and 
disagreeable  day  when  work  was  to  be  done,  removed 
from  the  enjoyable  present  by  a  long  chain  of  idle 
hours.  The  to-morrow  of  the  Americans  who  had 
built  the  city  was  a  golden  time  when  the  reward  of 
to-day's  work  was  to  be  reaped.  No  wonder  if  they 
anticipated  it  a  little ;  and  drew  a  check  on  the  fut 
ure  which — unless  something  happened — to-morrow 
would  put  funds  in  the  bank  to  pay. 

When  the  Pueblo  de  Los  Angeles  was  built  out  of 
its  native  clay,  land  in  California  could  be  had  by  the 
league  and  for  the  asking.  The  Spanish-Californians 
were  few  in  a  country  of  vast  natural  wealth.  Estates 
of  from  four  to  eighteen  leagues — a  league  is  about 
five  thousand  acres — were  common.  But  when  a 
man  and  his  horses  could  live  out  of  doors  all  the  year 
around;  when  his  cattle  and  sheep,  feeding  uncared 
for  over  an  unlimited  range,  supplied  the  main  article 
of  his  diet,  and  a  few  acres  in  beans  and  maize  fur 
nished  the  others;  when  he  could  portion  his  daugh 
ters  from  the  public  domain:  one  league  was  as  good 
as  twenty.  The  typical  Californian  never  thought  of 
cultivating  the  land,  even  though  the  Mission  Fathers 
showed  him  what  could  be  done  with  it,  bringing  the 
almond  from  France,  the  olive  and  orange  from 
Spain.  He  lived,  happy  and  careless,  finding  it  easy 
to  borrow  money  when  he  needed  it,  and  to  get  any 
thing  he  wanted  to  buy  on  credit.  When  he  had 
money  he  did  not  put  it  out  at  interest,  but  buried  it 
in  the  earth  or  hid  it  in  some  corner;  when  he  bor- 

77 


THE   FORERUNNER 

rowed  he  willingly  paid  two  or  three  per  cent  a  month 
interest,  and  renewed  his  notes  as  often  as  they  fell 
due,  or  borrowed  more.  He  was  trusted,  for  it  was 
said  of  his  class  that  they  would  pay  their  debts  if  it 
ruined  them;  as  it  did.  In  the  middle  fifties  these 
pastoral  patriarchs  owned  the  whole  of  California; 
twenty  years  later  they  had  lost  everything. 

When  the  Easterners  rushed  in  on  the  wave  of  the 
gold  excitement  of  '49  things  boomed  for  a  time 
and  the  Californians  got  the  first  benefit.  Cattle 
became  valuable  for  meat  and  the  Yankee  need  for 
beef  made  the  owners  suddenly  rich.  They  hastened 
to  spend  in  the  only  ways  they  knew.  They  trimmed 
their  saddles  and  bridles  with  solid  silver,  and  had 
spurs  of  silver  or  even  of  gold.  Few  of  their  adobe 
houses  had  wooden  floors;  but  they  covered  the 
floors  of  earth  with  costly  rugs,  hung  their  old  four- 
post  beds  with  silk  and  lace  curtains,  and  the  women 
went  about  dragging  as  many  yards  of  silk  and  satin 
as  could  be  looped  into  a  train. 

The  end  of  this  splendor  came  soon.  The  simple 
Californians  were  finally  ruined  by  the  boom  from 
the  East.  As  soon  as  their  land  was  perceived  to  be 
valuable  they  lost  it.  Miles  of  wild  grass  were  cut 
up  by  the  new-comers  into  stock  and  grain  ranches, 
still  thousands  of  acres  in  extent;  and  so  held  until 
the  Eastern  immigration  changed  in  character.  When 
enough  men  came,  not  to  dig  gold  but  to  farm,  they 
broke  up  the  great  estates  by  forcing  the  owners  to 
pay  their  share  of  taxation;  and  each  new  wave  of 
settlers  subdivided  still  further.  Small  farmers  at 
first  had  a  hundred  and  sixty  acres;  later  they  were 
content  with  thirty  or  twenty.  Then  the  Chinaman 

78 


THE   FORERUNNER 

might  have  ten  acres  in  strawberries  or  he  might 
raise  vegetables  on  an  acre  lot  within  the  city  limits. 
But  it  was  reserved  for  the  second  boom  to  cut  up 
an  acre  into  twenty  or  thirty  city  lots  and  sell  it  for 
enough  to  buy  out  the  twenty-acre  farmer  twice  over. 

Once  more  Eastern  gold  filled  the  pockets  of  the 
Californians,  while  native  amateurs  ably  assisted  the 
foreign  professionals  in  working  the  boom  to  its 
height. 

But  long  before  this  final  transformation  of  the 
city  it  had  dropped  the  superfluous  syllables  of  its 
lazy  Spanish  name  and  had  grown  away  from  the 
original  settlement,  though  this  remained  in  lines  of 
peeling,  one-story  adobes,  under  the  name  of  "Sonora- 
town,"  a  place  of  sordid  look  and  evil  resort.  Beyond 
it  grew  up  the  American  town,  first  the  business  dis 
trict,  then  the  well-laid-out  and  shaded  residence 
streets  on  which  business  constantly  encroached.  A 
few  better-class  examples  of  the  old  architecture 
might  linger  in  the  lower  part  of  the  American  city 
— two  or  three  of  those  adobe  houses  which  were 
simply  a  long  row  of  rooms  each  with  a  door  opening 
on  the  veranda,  unless,  in  a  family  having  unmarried 
daughters,  there  might  be  one  room  with  no  outside 
door  and  only  a  narrow  window,  to  keep  the  girls  safe 
from  nocturnal  wooers.  There,  too,  stood  the  old 
Mission  church  with  its  cracked  and  discordant  bells. 
And  living  relics  of  the  old  days  sometimes  peram 
bulated  the  broad  streets  of  the  new  quarter — the 
ice-cream  man  and  the  tamale  man,  swarthy  of  skin, 
dressed  in  white,  carrying  on  their  heads  the  buckets 
holding  their  mysterious  wares  and  proclaiming  them 
by  the  aid  of  a  bell. 

79 


THE  FORERUNNER 

The  boom  decreased  the  interest,  never  very  brisk, 
in  these  reminders  of  the  old  life.  The  tourist  might 
like  to  see  General  Fremont's  head-quarters,  or  some 
of  the  huge  palm-trees  which  grew  up  with  the  Span 
ish  town;  but  after  that  he  was  more  apt  to  be  inter 
ested  in  the  latest  "addition"  to  the  city — a  tract  of 
land  out  on  the  hills  perhaps  beyond  the  suburbs, 
but  already  laid  out,  lighted,  and  being  sold  off 
in  lots. 

After  practically  all  the  available  land  within  the 
city  limits  had  been  thus  disposed  of,  the  speculators 
proceeded  to  buy  out  the  small  farmer  next  beyond, 
and  to  cut  up  his  orange  orchards  and  vineyards. 
Naturally  the  fruit  trees  and  vines  went  by  the  board 
in  this  and  succeeding  deals.  Nobody  wanted  them, 
and  the  sooner  they  died  from  lack  of  water  the 
sooner  they  would  cease  to  cumber  the  valuable 
ground. 

Then  the  boomer  went  still  farther  afield.  Be 
tween  the  city  and  the  mountains  stretched  miles 
of  level  or  gently  rolling  land,  a  good  deal  of  it  cul 
tivated,  the  rest  covered  with  the  native  growth  of 
brush  and  live-oaks.  The  mind  of  the  real-estate 
man  saw  the  wave  of  urban  population  submerging 
this  rural  waste,  and  sweeping  clear  up  over  the  foot 
hills;  or  at  least  he  saw  the  land  dotted  with  white 
stakes  representing  the  population  to  come.  Ac 
cordingly,  he  bought  a  certain  number  of  acres  and 
founded  a  "town-site."  First  he  selected  a  name 
for  his  town;  then  streets  were  laid  out  and  graded 
and  sometimes  car- tracks  were  put  down.  Electric- 
light  poles  were  set  up.  Sometimes  a  hotel  was  built, 
or  if  not  the  lumber  for  it  was  carted  to  the  ground, 

80 


THE  FORERUNNER 

along  with  loads  of  water-pipe.  Then  a  map  of  the 
property  was  made  and  all  was  ready  for  the  sale. 

The  boom  had  lasted  a  year  and  a  half,  and  Dan 
had  been  married  three  months,  when  he  threw  down 
his  big  stake  on  the  broad  green  table.  But  he  had 
been  in  the  line  of  it  from  the  start.  He  had  seen 
the  craze  grow  from  its  small  beginning  to  such  pro 
portions  as  turned  many  cooler  brains  than  his.  And 
he  had  helped  it  on  by  every  means  in  his  power, 
having  a  real  faith  that  the  country  would  live  up 
to  its  press-notices. 

He  had  been  assistant  business  manager  of  the 
Clarion — having  invested  in  the  newspaper  after  dis 
solving  partnership  with  Emmons — during  the  mem 
orable  winter  two  years  before,  when  the  influx  of 
Eastern  tourists  doubled  past  records,  and  when  the 
immemorial  desire  of  the  Californian  to  sell  his  land 
had  begun  to  be  gratified  on  a  large  scale.  Dan  then 
had  no  land  to  sell:  but  when  the  trading  in  city-lots 
assumed  the  proportions  of  a  boom,  he  did  a  part  of 
it.  However,  he  was  not  a  trader  by  temperament. 
He  wanted  to  make  money,  but  the  idea  of  buying 
cheap  and  selling  dear  and  keeping  on  the  safe  side, 
did  not  attract  him.  It  may  fairly  be  said  that  he 
was  never  much  interested  in  any  transaction  that 
did  not  involve  an  element  of  risk;  and,  indeed,  that 
the  larger  this  element  was,  the  deeper  was  his  inter 
est.  He  was  a  plunger;  but  so  far  as  plunging  can 
be  distinguished  from  gambling,  not  a  gambler.  He 
had,  for  example,  never  cared  for  cards  or  racing. 
He  speculated;  but  not  simply  for  the  gain,  nor  for 
the  excitement.  The  desire  of  action  and  of  achieve 
ment  was  his  impulse.  To  do  something  at  once  bold 

81 


THE   FORERUNNER 

and  solid  was  his  intention.  To  discover,  to  organize 
and  direct  forces  in  line  with  the  development  of  the 
country,  was  really  his  ambition  now,  and  the  boom 
had  helped  to  make  that  ambition  definite.  Dan  be 
lieved  in  the  boom.  Already  in  his  mind  he  had  gone 
far  beyond  it;  and  what  loomed  large  to  the  eyes  of 
less  imaginative  men  seemed  to  him  but  the  natural 
consequence  of  the  pouring  of  Eastern  capital  into  a 
country  of  immense  natural  riches;  and  that  inpour- 
ing,  again,  but  the  result  to  be  expected,  when  the 
shrewd  Easterners  should  see  the  country's  possibil 
ities. 

Dan  kept  his  interest  in  the  Clarion  because  the 
newspaper  is  a  necessary  and  valuable  agent  in  build 
ing  up  the  country,  but  he  gave  his  time  to  real  estate, 
and  constantly  reinvested  his  increasing  profits. 
From  the  city  he  had  progressed  to  the  suburbs,  where 
more  land  could  be  bought  for  less  money;  and  thence 
beyond  the  city  limits.  The  sale  on  the  Emmons 
ranch  gave  him  the  money  to  invest  in  a  town-site. 
The  town-site  had  been  in  Dan's  mind  from  the  time 
when  such  a  thing  seemed  possible.  He  had  thought 
of  it  before  he  met  Anna;  it  had  kept  a  place  in  his 
thoughts  not  to  be  usurped  even  by  her  image.  And 
now  that  the  woman  he  loved  was  his,  Dan  had  a 
double  stake  to  throw;  and  he  risked  it  on  the  future 
of  his  town. 


82 


VI. 


town  was  named  Elaine,  after  the  states- 
man  whom  he  most  ardently  admired,  and  for 
whom  he  had  stumped  the  State  in  the  last  but  one 
Presidential  campaign.  The  disappointment  of  the 
White  Plumed  Knight  himself  in  the  result  of  that 
campaign,  though  it  may  have  lasted  longer  than 
Dan's,  could  hardly  have  been  sharper  at  first.  And 
Dan's  loyalty  was  enduring  if  not  his  grief.  It  may 
be  that  the  title  deed  to  the  best  corner-lot  in  the 
new  town  did  not  convey  much  consolation  to  the 
Secretary  of  State;  but  such  as  it  was,  he  had  it. 

The  town-site  was  twenty  miles  out  in  the  valley 
of  the  San  Gabriel  and  comprised  sixty  acres  of  level 
land,  which  had  never  been  broken  by  the  plough. 
It  was  well  into  December  before  all  Dan's  arrange 
ments  were  made.  He  put  up  no  buildings;  but  he 
graded  his  streets,  erected  electric-light  poles,  and 
laid  down  sidewalks.  Meantime  towns  had  been  lo 
cated  to  the  east  and  west  of  him,  to  the  north  and 
south.  Baldwin,  a  boom  town  in  the  foot-hills,  was 
really  growing,  and  survives  to-day;  and  others, 
founded  to  grow  and  not  merely  to  sell,  took  root 
and  prospered.  The  population  of  the  parent  city 
was  still  increasing,  and  the  holidays,  which  always 
brought  the  main  body  of  visitors,  were  yet  to  come. 

Daniel  Devin's  hopes  were  green  and  flourishing, 
as  the  whole  face  of  the  country  in  its  spring  luxuri- 

83 


THE  FORERUNNER 

ance.  He  enjoyed  thoroughly  the  time  that  he  spent 
on  his  land,  superintending  the  work.  He  liked  boss 
ing  any  kind  of  a  job,  and  particularly  anything  that 
took  him  out  of  doors.  He  felt  while  he  walked  about 
and  gave  orders  to  his  Mexicans  that  he  should  have 
liked  to  be  always  as  near  the  earth;  a  farmer,  per 
haps,  if  farming  could  be  conducted  by  a  central  brain 
controlling  enough  hands.  It  was  inspiring  to  sow, 
to  watch  the  growth  of  the  harvest,  and  to  reap;  and 
to  sow  a  crop  of  white  stakes  and  reap  brick  buildings 
was  to  Dan  a  legitimate  as  well  as  a  most  interesting 
enterprise.  He  already  saw  the  brick  buildings  in  his 
mind's  eye;  the  growth  of  the  town  would  make  it  a 
centre  for  the  agricultural  products  of  the  valley,  and 
would  bring  the  railroad.  It  would  be  a  health  re 
sort,  too,  fdr  the  dry  air  of  the  valley  was  sought  by 
consumptives.  And  since  many  a  town  has  been 
made  by  the  natural  beauty  of  its  surroundings, 
Blaine  had  a  third  chance  of  life  and  prosperity. 

It  lay  just  below  the  hills  that  rolled  waves  of  green 
up  into  the  clefts  and  canons  of  the  mountain  range. 
The  short  wild  grass,  sown  with  violets,  that  covered 
these  slopes  after  the  rains,  gave  the  most  brilliant 
note;  but  the  whole  valley— really  a  broad  plain 
bounded  on  the  south  and  west  by  another  line  of 
hills  bare  in  the  distance— was  a  patchwork  of  greens, 
wild  or  cultivated  land  alike,  relieved  by  the  deep 
brown  of  freshly  ploughed  fields,  the  glitter  of  a 
stream  between  rows  of  cotton-wood  or  willow  trees, 
or  a  stretch  of  wild  mustard  tossing  its  light-gold 
blossom  high  in  the  air.  The  mountains  near  at  hand 
lost  their  blue  and  purple  tones,  and  showed  brown 
and  bronze  instead  above  the  line  where  the  chapar- 

84 


THE  FORERUNNER 

ral  climbed.  Still  to  the  north  rose  a  further  range, 
crowned  with  snow  and  melting  vaguely  into  the  ra 
diant  blue  of  the  sky. 

Dan  had  bought  his  land  from  an  old  German, 
Jacob  Rathgeber,  of  whose  ranch  it  had  formed  a 
part.  Rathgeber  had  declined  to  part  with  any  of 
his  cultivated  land,  and  especially  with  the  little  rise 
crowned  by  his  house  and  gardens.  Dan  coveted 
this  site  for  his  hotel,  and  offered  a  round  price  for  it. 

"Sell  my  rose-garden — tausendmal  nein !"  exclaimed 
the  old  settler  scornfully.  He  formed  the  habit  of 
coming  down,  whenever,  from  the  vantage  ground  of 
his  hill- top,  he  perceived  Dan  among  the  workmen; 
and  would  stand,  pipe  in  mouth,  watching  the 
operations  with  a  sardonic  smile,  and  occasionally  of 
fering  a  chuckling  comment.  The  creases  of  his  old 
clothes  were  constantly  full  of  the  soil  of  his  flower 
beds  and  powdered  with  tobacco.  He  smelt  of  beer, 
seldom  shaved,  and  never  wore  a  collar.  Now  and 
then  he  would  be  morose,  for,  unable  to  resist  the  of 
fer  that  Dan  had  made  him,  he  still  regretted  having 
sold  the  land.  One  day  he  said,  while  his  eyes  roved 
with  mingled  pride  and  gloom  over  his  trim,  perfectly 
kept  orchards,  the  fields  of  young  barley  just  begin 
ning  to  head,  stirred  by  the  light  breeze  in  glisten 
ing  waves,  and  his  garden  ablaze  with  color: 

"If  I  fought  you  would  ever  have  a  town  here  I 
would  yet  try  to  buy  my  land  back." 

"Try,"  said  Dan  good-humoredly. 

"Well,  maybe  I  get  it  back  wit'out  buying.  If 
your  town  don't  grow  in  a  hurry,  you  sell  it  out  for 
what  you  can  get,  hein?  You  ain't  goin'  to  wait 
some  years  for  it  to  grow." 

85 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"No,  I  don't  expect  to,"  Dan  said  abstractedly, 
and  began  to  whistle. 

"No.  I  been  fifteen  years  making  my  rose-garden, 
and  it  is  wort'  all  the  town  you  will  ever  make  here. 
My  view  is  already  spoiled  with  dese  criss-cross  lines 
and  poles.  If  you  should  build  any  buildings  here, 
I  turn  my  house  around  to  look  down  into  the  canon/' 

"Well,  you  better  get  to  work,  then,"  was  Dan's 
rejoinder.  "We'll  begin  to  build  the  hotel  in  two  or 
three  weeks." 

"Ach,  niemals.  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  how 
dese  sales  work,  I  been  to  one  the  other  day,  where 
they  got  another  town  like  yours  about  a  mile  over. 
It  makes  me  laugh.  All  you  want  is  to  sell  out  some 
lots  to  dose  people  in  stove-pipe  hats  wit'  diamonds 
in  dere  shirts.  Much  dey  care  about  your  town! 
You  ain't  goin'  to  live  here  yourself,  nicht?" 

"Maybe,"  Dan  laughed.  The  old  fellow  amused 
him.  "Maybe  you  and  I'll  be  the  first  residents. 
We  must  be  neighborly." 

"I  a  resident!    I  move  out  first." 

"Well,  you'll  probably  move  out  sooner  or  later. 
This  land  will  be  too  valuable  for  you  to  live  on,  when 
the  valley  settles  up.  When  you  can  get  five  thou 
sand  dollars  an  acre  for  it,  you  won't  put  ten  acres 
into  alfalfa  and  three  into  flowers.  I'll  build  my  hotel 
on  your  hill  yet." 

"Not  till  I'm  dead,  anyhow,"  shouted  Rathgeber 
as  Dan  moved  away. 

The  mid-day  sun  was  warm  on  the  plain  from  which 
the  western  hills  cut  off  the  sea-breeze.  Dan  went  a 
little  way  up  the  slope  and  threw  himself  down  on 
the  grass  in  the  shade  of  a  live-oak  tree.  The  grass 

86 


THE   FORERUNNER 

was  coarse,  but  of  the  brightest  and  most  luxuriant 
green;  and  in  with  it  gr,ew  innumerable  violet-plants 
and  other  wild-flowers  which  would  be  blossoming 
in  a  few  weeks.  It  hid,  too,  the  nests  of  the  meadow- 
larks,  which  were  singing  far  and  near  in  the  covert 
— a  brief  song  of  lowly  sweetness,  liquid  as  the  gurgle 
of  a  stream,  fresh  and  joyous  as  the  spring  itself. 

"I  suppose  I'm  trespassing/'  Dan  said  lazily  to 
Rathgeber,  who  had  followed  him.  "Are  you  going 
to  throw  me  off?" 

The  old  German  grunted. 

"Do  you  know,  I  like  this" — Dan  waved  his 
hand  vaguely — "better  than  your  fenced-in  place. 
I  think  the  violets  and  poppies  when  they  come  up 
just  where  they  please  will  be  a  long  sight  prettier 
than  your  stiff  roses  and  lilies." 

"Ah,  you  have  not  seen  my  rose-garden."  Rath 
geber  after  a  pause  added  shamefacedly,  "If  you 
will  come  up  and  drink  a  glass  of  beer  with  me?" 

Dan  took  the  invitation  as  a  pretext,  but  accepted 
it  cheerfully  enough.  They  walked  together  up  the 
winding  roadway,  bordered  with  rows  of  fan-palms 
and  bands  of  small  flowers,  that  led  to  the  house. 
The  knoll  lay  in  the  mouth  of  a  canon.  Down  its 
slope  and  up  the  hill  beyond  ran  long  lines  of  orange 
and  lemon  trees.  The  cottage  was  surrounded  by 
perfectly  kept  lawns,  studded  with  odd-shaped  little 
flower-beds.  A  great  rose- vine  with  a  trunk  as  thick 
as  a  man's  arm  overspread  the  whole  front  of  the 
house  and  threw  its  white  blossoms  above  the  roof. 
An  odd  bright  medley  of  flowers  was  banked  against 
the  sides  of  the  house — nasturtiums,  fuchsias,  lilies, 
geraniums,  and  a  dozen  other  sorts.  On  the  porch 

87 


THE  FORERUNNER 

as  they  approached  stood  a  homely  little  woman  in  a 
stiff  print  dress  and  white  apron,  with  a  large  dinner 
bell  in  her  hand. 

"Ah,  dinner  must  be  ready,"  said  Rathgeber  with 
an  air  of  surprise.  He  glanced  anxiously  at  his  guest. 
" Would  you  sit  down  with  us?" 

His  manoeuvre  succeeding,  the  old  man  became 
at  once  happily  genial.  He  ushered  Dan  into  the 
tiny  parlor,  full  of  German  bric-a-brac  and  the  smell 
of  rose  pot-pourri;  hurried  to  change  his  dirty  coat 
for  a  velvet  house-jacket,  and  then  invited  the  visitor 
to  follow  him  out  the  back-door  and  into  the  grape- 
arbor,  where  the  table  was  neatly  set  for  dinner. 
There  was  a  good  solid  meal,  with  unlimited  Mlinch- 
ner  of  the  best.  As  they  ate,  Rathgeber  questioned 
Dan  about  the  business  situation  in  the  city,  and  his 
personal  connection  with  it.  Much  of  the  peasant 
roughness  of  his  speech  had  disappeared,  though  he 
ate  with  his  knife  and  talked  with  his  mouth  full. 

"So  you  have  made  sixty  tousand  dollars  in  the  last 
year,  eh?"  he  said,  sceptically.  "Mostly  on  paper, 
ain't  it?  Well,  maybe  you  get  out  dis  time,  I  don't 
know.  People  are  about  crazy  just  now,  but  how 
long  will  it  last?  I  t'ink  you're  crazy  to  pay  me  so 
much  for  my  land.  How  much  you  t'ink  I  paid  for 
it  when  I  came  here  fifteen  years  ago?" 

"Oh,  about  a  dollar  an  acre." 

"No,  sir,  two  dollars  and  a  half.  Dis  whole  valley 
was  a  desert  den — not' ing  but  sage-brush  and  cac 
tus,  sand  and  stones.  Dere  was  no  water  and  nobody 
ever  fought  to  raise  any t' ing  on  it.  Dere  was  a  little 
stream  up  here  in  the  canon  going  to  waste.  I 
started  in  to  keep  bees.  When  I  got  enough  money 

88 


THE  FORERUNNER 

to  pipe  de  water  over  dot  hill,  all  de  rest  was  easy. 
My  oranges  and  olives,  my  grapes  and  all  other  fruits, 
pay  me  every  year  more  dan  de  whole  business  cost. 
Now  you  come  along,  and  pay  me  for  land  dot  I 
never  even  ploughed,  t'ree  hundred  dollars  an  acre. 
I'm  rich,  I  don't  need  dot  money,  but  if  you  offer  it  I 
take  it.  But  if  you  don't  make  a  lot  on  it  you  are 
busted,  nicht?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Even  if  I  didn't  sell  it  right  off, 
I'd  have  the  land,  wouldn't  I?" 

Rathgeber  shook  his  head. 

"You  paid  me  eight  t'ousand  dollars.  In  free 
months  you  got  to  pay  me  ten  t'ousand  more.  If  you 
don't  sell  dot  land  you  can't  do  it.  Now  I  ain't  goin' 
to  make  you  a  present  of  dot  ten  t'ousand."  He 
hurried  on,  drowning  Dan's  protest  by  a  violent  blow 
on  the  table. 

"It  ain't  right,  I  tell  you!  You'll  be  sorry — and 
I'll  be  sorry — and  de  country '11  be  sorry.  It's  better 
you  make  one  place  like  mine  dan  a  hundred  towns 
like  yours." 

"Even  supposing  I  make  eighteen  thousand  dollars 
for  you  and  fifty  thousand  for  myself, — and  the  town 
goes  on  growing  and  trebles  the  value  of  this  land 
you've  got  left?"  suggested  Dan. 

Another  blow  on  the  table. 

"It  ain't,  I  tell  you!  You  can't  take  a  piece  of 
land,  stick  some  white  poles  in  it  and  say,  'yesterday 
you  were  wort'  five  hundred  dollars,  to-day  you're 
wort*  five  t'ousand.'  Niemals!  Margaretha,  bring 
the  pipes." 

When  the  little  hausfrau  had  brought  them  and 
filled  the  long,  gayly  decorated  bowls,  Dan  could  not 

89 


THE  FORERUNNER 

refuse  to  light  his,  though  he  said  he  must  soon  be 
getting  away. 

"I  have  business  in  the  city  this  afternoon.  But 
first  I  want  to  see  your  garden,"  he  added  out  of  cour 
tesy. 

Rathgeber  sighed.  "Already?  You  Americans  al 
ways  hurry.  If  we  could  smoke  here  awhile,  it  would 
be  pleasanter,  too,  outside.  Only  one  more  stein  of 
beer?" 

"One  more,  then.  But  why  should  I  hurry  you 
away?  Another  day  will  do  for  the  garden." 

"No,  to-day  is  always  the  best  time.  To-morrow 
maybe  never  comes,  nicht  wahr?" 

The  beer  was  brought  stone-cold  from  the  earthen 
cellar,  and  slowly  consumed.  Then  Rathgeber  filled 
his  pipe  again  and  reluctantly  rose. 

"Ach,  es  ist  so  furchtbar  unangenehm  die  Tatei 
zu  verlassen,"  he  sighed  again. 

Though  it  was  cool  in  the  sun-shot  shade  of  the 
arbor,  the  direct  sunlight  outside  was  hot.  But  Dan 
enjoyed  his  walk  about  the  place,  which  indeed  jus 
tified  its  creator's  pride.  It  was  a  little  miracle  of 
order  and  abundance,  from  the  acres  of  rose-bloom 
to  the  bee-colony  up  the  canon,  rows  of  little  white 
hives  gleaming  against  the  solid  wall  of  chaparral 
mixed  with  wild  buckwheat,  where  the  bees  hummed 
busily;  and  the  nursery  where  Rathgeber,  who  had 
some  fame  as  a  plant-breeder,  conducted  his  experi 
ments  in  hybridization. 

"But  de  best  time  to  see  de  roses,  of  course,  is  early 
in  de  morning,"  said  the  old  German,  looking  them 
over  tenderly.  "We  cut  de  best  buds  before  de  sun 
reaches  dem.  Dot  is  Margaretha's  little  business 

90 


THE  FORERUNNER 

She  supplies  two  florists,  and  she  also  makes  pot 
pourri  and  conserve  from  the  petals.  You  will  see 
dem  drying  up  near  the  house." 

Then  he  pointed  out  some  curious  trees  and  shrubs. 
"It  is  my  amusement  to  see  how  many  of  dese  foreign 
ers  I  can  make  at  home  here/'  he  said.  In  a  short 
radius  there  were,  beside  the  sword  and  fan  palms, 
olive  and  fig  trees,  banana,  magnolia,  India-rubber, 
camphor  and  umbrella  trees,  a  hedge  of  Chinese 
lemons,  pomegranate  andguava  bushes;  a  sago-palm 
from  Ceylon,  tea-plants  from  China,  a  silver-tree  from 
South  America. 

"It  is  a  friendly  soil,"  said  Rathgeber.  "It  will  re 
ceive  anything  and  give  it  a  home.  Dot's  because 
it  had  not' ing  to  start  with  itself,  maybe.  Well, 
perhaps  de  yucca  palm  and  de  yellow  poppy,  but 
most  everything  else  comes  from  abroad.  De  syca 
more  is  an  Oriental,  like  all  dese  others.  De  euca 
lyptus  comes  from  Australia,  de  pepper-tree  from 
Chili.  And  de  people,  too,  de  same.  Now  you  and 
I,  we  are  exotics,  hein?  You  are  not  born  here?" 

"No,  but  I'm  planted  here  like  your  queer  trees!" 

"Ah,  but  you  have  no  roots  here,  like  dem — and 
like  me.  Often  I  want  to  go  back  to  Strasburg,  but 
I  can  never  give  up  my  place  here." 

"Perhaps  my  town  will  tie  me  here,  too,"  Dan  said, 
laughing.  "But  I  see  I  shall  have  to  find  another  hill 
for  my  hotel." 

"Truly  you  will.  But  your  town  must  first  have 
roots  itself  before  you  care  much  about  it." 

"That  oughtn't  to  take  long.  A  soil  that  can  raise 
a  forest  in  ten  years  ought  to  be  able  to  raise  a  town 


91 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Rathgeber  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"It  must  have  some  life  to  start  with.  You  have 
only  planted  money  in  dot  land." 

They  came  round  to  the  front  of  the  house  as  he 
spoke,  and  looked  down  upon  the  site,  where  the 
workmen  were  now  putting  in  the  last  of  the  electric- 
light  poles.  In  its  raw  beginning  Dan's  creation  cer 
tainly  did  look  out  of  harmony  with  the  natural 
beauty  of  springing  grass,  tree  and  flower.  Dan 
could  even  share  Rathgeber's  point  of  view  and  admit 
that  it  was,  in  some  sort,  a  blot  on  the  scene. 

"But  you  ought  not  to  bear  me  a  grudge," 
he  said  as  he  took  leave.  "Think  of  the  eighteen 
thousand." 

Rathgeber  put  out  a  hand  not  too  clean  and  gave 
a  cordial  grip. 

"I  wish  you  success,"  he  said.  "Auf  morgen. 
For  you  must  come  again." 

As  Dan  travelled  back  in  the  train  to  the  city  he 
smiled  at  the  recollection  of  this  interview,  and 
thought  of  telling  Anna  about  it.  But  the  second 
thought  was  against  it,  as,  indeed,  was  now  generally 
the  case  with  his  daily  experience.  Business  detail 
and  talk  about  commonplace  people  bored  Anna. 
And  besides  she  would  probably  not  take  a  humorous 
view  of  Rathgeber's  attitude  toward  Dan's  enterprise. 
In  fact,  she  seldom  took  a  humorous  view  of  anything. 
In  trying  to  consider  her  feelings  and  prejudices,  Dan 
had  by  this  time  come  to  efface  a  large  part  of  himself 
from  her  view,  and  when  they  talked  together  it  was 
generally  of  their  joint  affairs  or  of  hers.  The  habit 
of  his  life  helped  him  to  overcome  that  impulse  to 
confidence  which  Anna  discouraged.  And,  unable 

92 


THE  FORERUNNER 

to  talk  of  what  occupied  his  mind,  he  was  now  some 
times  silent  when  she  would  have  preferred  conversa 
tion.  But  his  silence  was  never  sulky  or  dead;  he 
was  simply  preoccupied  and  at  night  generally  tired. 
Very  often  he  made  an  effort  to  meet  Anna  on  her 
own  ground.  Just  now  especially  he  was  eager  to  do 
this,  and  with  her  or  absent  had  her  constantly  in 
his  mind.  For  Anna  was  going  through  experiences 
of  her  own  that  made  her  more  than  ever  the  centre 
of  her  own  world, — and  of  his. 

Having  spent  two  hours  at  his  office,  Daniel  stopped 
at  a  florist's  and  bought  a  huge  bunch  of  Anna's  fa 
vorite  violets — the  purple  single  kind  with  long  stems 
and  broad  petals.  They  were  to  have  some  people 
at  dinner  that  night,  and  Anna  wanted  to  go  to  a 
dance  afterward.  He  reached  the  house  a  little  after 
six.  The  maid  was  lighting  the  lamps  in  the  parlors, 
and,  looking  in  for  a  moment,  Dan  perceived  a  festal 
note  in  the  vases  and  bowls  of  red  roses  that  stood 
on  all  the  little  tables  and  on  the  piano.  He  saw  also 
that  the  girl,  besides  her  usual  uniform  of  black  and 
white,  wore  a  cap,  and  recognized  that  Anna  had  won 
a  victory  over  Irish- American  independence.  Smil 
ing  he  went  on  upstairs. 

The  first  door  to  the  right  in  the  upper  hall  led  into 
a  room  which  Dan  and  Anna  in  their  first  gay  days 
in  the  new  house  had  named  "the  nursery."  The 
room  was  empty  as  yet,  the  door  locked  and  the  key 
in  the  lock  outside.  Dan  glanced  at  it  as  he  passed. 
They  would,  at  no  very  distant  date,  be  furnishing 
that  room. 

In  their  bedroom  Anna  was  sitting  before  her  dress 
ing-table  doing  her  hair.  She  smiled  faintly  into  the 

93 


THE   FORERUNNER 

mirror  at  Dan  when  he  tossed  the  violets  into  her  lap 
and  bent  to  kiss  her. 

"See,  I've  done  it  the  way  you  like,"  she  said  as 
she  turned  her  head  and  put  in  the  last  hair-pin.  Her 
hair  was  thick  but  short;  drawn  back  loosely  in  two 
heavy  waves  covering  the  tips  of  her  ears,  it  made  a 
small  knot  at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  She  took  up  a 
white  rosebud  from  its  little  vase  on  the  dressing- 
table,  dried  its  stem,  and  fastened  it  in  the  knot  be 
hind  her  left  ear.  Then  she  threw  off  her  dressing 
jacket  and  stood  up.  Dan,  having  taken  off  his  coat 
and  collar,  stood  looking  at  her. 

She  appeared  very  well,  with  color  in  her  cheeks 
and  lips;  and  the  marked  change  of  expression  in  her 
face  had  certainly  not  lessened  its  beauty.  Indeed, 
the  shade  of  melancholy  that  replaced  her  former 
rather  aggressive  self-confidence,  the  slight  languor 
of  her  movements,  gave  her  a  wholly  new  charm. 
With  her  blond  hair  so  simply  dressed,  and  her  large 
eyes  half-veiled  by  their  heavy  lids,  she  momentarily 
suggested  the  Madonna  type. 

She  went  to  put  on  her  dress,  which  was  spread 
out  on  the  bed,  and  said  without  looking  up,  "Hadn't 
you  better  begin  to  dress?  I  want  you  to  see  if  the 
champagne  is  all  right.  Sarah  didn't  know  which 
kind  to  put  in  the  ice." 

"Yes,  I'll  see  about  it  now." 

When  he  came  back  Anna  was  standing  before  the 
cheval-glass,  waiting  for  him  to  fasten  her  dress,  which 
laced  up  the  back.  It  was  a  white  silk,  heavy  and 
lustreless,  made  very  plainly  to  show  the  majestic 
contours  of  her  figure,  and  embroidered  in  white  about 
the  low  decolle'tage.  It  had  short  sleeves  of  lace  and 

94 


THE   FORERUNNER 

a  square  train,  and  was  Anna's  favorite  gown.  When 
Dan  had  painstakingly  finished  the  lacing,  she  looked 
at  herself  from  head  to  foot  in  the  mirror,  then  turned, 
saying,  "Am  I  all  right?" 

"You  are  too  beautiful,  almost,"  he  answered  in  a 
low  tone.  His  admiration  of  her  was  no  longer  light- 
hearted  or  gay.  There  was  now  always  a  tinge  of 
pain  in  it,  his  tenderness  seemed  almost  remorseful. 

Anna  at  once  went  out  of  the  room. 

"You  must  hurry — you  have  only  fifteen  minutes," 
she  said  plaintively  over  her  shoulder.  "I'm  going 
to  see  about  the  table." 

She  went  down  the  stairs  slowly  trailing  her  rich 
dress,  the  tips  of  her  fingers  sliding  over  the  banisters. 
She  was  afraid  of  falling  now.  Half-way  down,  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes,  but  by  the  time  she  reached 
the  bottom  stair  she  had  conquered  them. 

She  walked  through  the  parlors,  and  noted  with 
satisfaction  the  effect  of  the  new  shades  which  she 
had  bought  that  afternoon  for  the  lamps  and  candles. 
On  the  dinner  table  the  same  scheme  of  color  was 
used,  and  the  plateau  of  crimson  roses  and  ferns  in 
the  centre,  with  the  crimson  shaded  candles  at  the 
four  corners,  together  with  the  silver-gilt  bon-bon 
dishes,  and  the  array  of  silver  and  of  gold  decorated 
glasses  at  each  plate,  made  a  brightly  gay  effect. 
Anna  had  seen  carefully  to  each  detail  beforehand. 
She  got  a  wonderfully  keen  pleasure  out  of  all  these 
possessions;  even  the  care  of  them  was  a  pleasure. 
She  had  the  disposition,  if  not  the  training  of  a  house 
wife. 

She  went  into  the  butler's  pantry  for  a  moment 
to  give  some  last  directions  to  the  cook,  and  then  re- 

95 


THE  FORERUNNER 

turned  to  the  parlor  with  the  cry  of  admiration  warm 
in  her  ears:  "Oh,  ma'am,  you  look  like  a  queen.  I 
niver  in  me  life  saw  anything  like  you  for  beauty!" 

The  dinner  was  to  be  a  small  one — only  the  Good 
wins  and  two  of  Dan's  bachelor  acquaintances — but 
it  was  Anna's  most  ambitious  attempt  so  far.  She 
was  a  little  nervous,  but  not  so  much  excited  as  she 
would  have  liked  to  be.  A  vague  veil  of  sadness 
dimmed  the  present  for  her  and  blurred  the  future, 
for  which  she  had  made  such  minute  plans  that  could 
not  now  be  carried  out.  However,  she  clung  to  what 
pleasure  she  could  get;  and  she  was  as  determined  to 
go  to  the  cotillion  that  night  as  Dan  was  reluctant  to 
let  her  go. 

When  he  came  downstairs  just  on  the  stroke  of 
seven,  Anna  looked  him  over  carefully  and,  finding 
nothing  in  his  attire  to  criticise,  she  said:  "I  ordered 
the  carriage  for  half-past  ten." 

Dan's  face  clouded. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  go,"  he  said  imploringly. 
"You  must  be  careful." 

"It's  nonsense  your  not  wanting  me  to  go,"  Anna 
cried.  "I  feel  perfectly  well.  How  could  it  hurt  me?" 

"Well,  if  you  would  just  go  for  a  little  while — and 
not  dance " 

"How  could  I  go  and  not  dance?  That's  silly.  Of 
course  I  shall  dance." 

"Anna,  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  do  it.  I'm  afraid 
some  accident " 

A  sob  interrupted  him. 

"Oh,  it's  cruel  that  I  can't  have  even  a  little  bit  of 
pleasure!  I  don't  see  what's  the  use  of  living  in  such 

a  world.    I  shall  die — I  know  I  shall " 

96 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Anna,  Anna!"  he  cried.  "For  God's  sake,  don't! 
You  shall  go  if  you  want  to  so  much.  Don't  cry, 
don't,  my  darling,  I  can't  bear  it " 

He  held  her  firmly,  though  she  shrank  back,  and 
his  voice  was  like  a  sob.  Anna  laughed  hysterically 
and  pushed  him  away  as  the  door-bell  trilled  faintly. 

"We  are  a  nice  pair.  They'll  find  us  in  tears.  You 
have  mussed  my  hair,  too." 

She  fled  into  the  back  parlor,  where  there  was  a  mir 
ror  in  the  mantel-piece.  The  tears  had  left  no  trace. 
And  as  Dan  followed  her  she  threw  herself  into  his 
arms  and  clung  to  him. 

"I  will  be  good,  and  not  dance  much"  she  said 
pathetically. 


97 


VII. 


dinner,  Anna  felt,  was  a  success;  and  the 
dance,  too,  proved  so.  She  had  a  flattering 
amount  of  attention  and  yet  was  content  to  come 
away  early.  She  enjoyed  every  moment  of  it;  was, 
she  protested  triumphantly,  not  even  tired  the  next 
day;  and  was  very  sweet  to  Dan  for  days  afterward. 
In  spite  of  the  constant  alloy  in  her  happiness  they 
still  had  some  completely  happy  hours  together. 

Dan's  delight  in  the  prospect  of  the  child  often 
overbore  Anna's  dread;  and  she  had  her  times  of 
being  glad  as  well  as  rather  astonished  that  he  should 
be  so  happy.  She  softened  to  him  slowly;  but  more 
and  more  she  was  coming  to  depend  on  him  and  to 
need  him. 

And  yet  he  felt  more  and  more  that  she  needed,  or 
at  least  that  she  wanted,  a  good  deal  beyond  him. 
She  was  eager  to  be  a  woman  of  affairs,  to  have  a 
large  establishment,  many  clubs,  a  church  —  she 
wished  to  join  the  fashionable  Episcopalians,  and  a 
visiting  list  including  "everybody."  She  wanted  to 
connect  herself  by  these  various  threads  with  innumer 
able  little  points  of  interest.  She  had  set  busily  about 
weaving  her  social  web,  having  its  exact  pattern  def 
initely  in  her  mind;  and  already  she  had  accom 
plished  something.  Mrs.  Goodwin,  a  middle-aged 
woman  of  worldly  cultivation  and  very  outspoken 
humor,  had  been  struck  by  Anna's  beauty  and 

98. 


THE  FORERUNNER 

youth,  and  still  more  taken  by  the  earnestness  with 
which  she  went  about  her  business — being  indeed  in 
finitely  diverted  by  simplicity  of  any  sort.  She  had 
asked  Anna  to  receive  with  her  at  a  tea  which  prac 
tically  introduced  Anna  to  the  women  she  was  most 
anxious  to  know.  Mrs.  Goodwin  was  one  of  the 
patronesses  of  the  cotillion,  and  Anna  had  made 
her  first  appearance  there  under  a  very  efficient 
wing. 

She  often  rose  above  her  fears,  was  amiable  and 
cheerful  for  days  together,  and  would  plan  happily 
with  Dan  for  the  future.  But  also  she  had  her  fre 
quent  moods  of  rebellion  and  desire  for  excitement, 
which  Dan's  opposition  only  intensified  into  hard 
recklessness.  To  these  moods  Dan  always  had  to 
yield  against  his  own  judgment.  She  knew  too  well 
how  to  silence  his  protest,  by  a  fit  of  tears,  by  out 
cries  against  her  hard  lot.  As  she  saw  the  time  fast 
approaching  when  she  must  give  up  her  pleasures  for 
some  months  at  least,  when  there  would  be  no  more 
afternoon  teas  or  calls,  nor  the  occasional  dinner  or 
dance,  nor  even  the  delight  of  exhibiting  her  beauty, 
Anna  insisted  all  the  more  eagerly  on  getting  what 
she  could. 

Thus  she  was  determined  to  go  to  the  second  cotil 
lion,  which  was  given  on  the  tenth  of  January. 
Unknown  to  Dan,  she  had  gone  down  the  day  before, 
in  company  with  a  number  of  the  young  women  and 
some  idle  men,  to  help  decorate  the  hall.  They  had 
spent  a  gay  morning  making  and  hanging  huge  scar 
let  flower-balls  of  tissue-paper,  and  garlands  and 
wreaths  of  evergreens.  There  were  to  be  potted 
palms  in  the  corners,  a  frieze  of  palm-leaves  around 

99 


THE   FORERUNNER 

the  wall,  and  fresh  flowers  put  in  at  the  last  mo 
ment.  They  all  agreed  it  was  immensely  successful. 

One  of  the  young  men  so  superior  to  the  calls  of 
business  was  Abram  De  Ronde  the  second.  He  was 
close  at  Anna's  side  the  whole  morning,  cutting  the 
tissue-paper  into  the  proper  shape  for  her — he  had 
very  delicate,  deft  hands,  with  the  most  perfect  al 
mond  nails — and  insisting  that  she  should  not  blacken 
her  fingers  with  the  evergreen.  And  when,  all  being 
done,  and  the  chattering  crowd  putting  on  their 
wraps,  a  girl  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  rattled  off 
a  waltz,  it  was  young  De  Ronde  who  swept  Anna 
off  into  the  middle  of  the  room  before  she  could  pro 
test.  He  was  shorter  and  slighter  than  she,  but  Anna 
liked  dancing  with  him  better  than  with  anyone  else. 
She  had  met  him  at  several  small  private  dances,  and 
counted  him  securely  among  her  admirers.  She  had 
wanted  to  invite  him  to  dinner,  but  Dan  refused,  and 
when  pressed  for  a  reason  alleged  that  De  Ronde  be 
longed  to  a  race  of  blood-suckers,  and  that  he,  Daniel 
Devin,  hated  all  of  them.  Anna  was  exasperated 
by  this  attitude. 

"He  is  certainly  much  more  of  a  gentleman  than 
some  people  we  have  had  here,"  she  said  coldly.  "He 
has  beautiful  manners  and  he  is  extremely  well  edu 
cated  and  polished,  and  talks  better  than  any  young 
man  I  know." 

"Very  likely.  But  considering  the  business  rela 
tions  between  his  father  and  myself,  it  would  be  im 
possible  for  me  to  ask  him  here,"  Dan  said  quite  as 
positively. 

Anna  forbore  to  press  the  point  then,  but  privately 
determined  to  carry  it  sooner  or  later.  She  liked  De 

100 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Ronde  very  much.  His  vivid  good  looks  and  a  cer 
tain  personal  power,  which  was  not  natural  grace  or 
charm  so  much  as  an  acquired  suavity  veiling  some 
thing  mysterious,  had  impressed  her.  There  was 
excitement,  not  without  a  faint  thrill  of  uneasiness, 
in  being  with  him,  and  in  perceiving  that,  notwith 
standing  she  was  unable  to  ask  him  to  her  house,  they 
were  growing  more  intimate.  Beside  him,  somehow, 
the  men  whom  she  could  ask  seemed  not  only  harm 
less,  but  brusque  and  cold. 

When  the  waltz  ended  and  the  gay  little  assembly 
broke  up,  De  Ronde  went  with  her  out  of  the  hall  and 
put  her  on  a  cable-car.  She  would  have  liked  im 
mensely  to  take  him  home  with  her  to  lunch,  but 
dared  not  ask  him,  though  she  knew  Dan  would  not 
be  there.  He  was  out  in  the  country.  In  most  other 
things  that  she  wanted  to  do,  and  knew  Dan  would 
disapprove,  she  would  very  likely  have  gone  ahead 
and  told  him  afterward — as,  for  example,  this  morn 
ing  at  the  hall,  in  which  she  had  promised  several 
dances  for  the  next  night,  and  the  cotillion,  to  De 
Ronde.  But  the  luncheon  would  be  different.  Anna 
wished  to  be  the  pink  of  propriety.  She  let  the  hand 
some  boy  go  with  disappointment  plain  in  his  face, 
and  thought  about  him  a  good  deal  on  the  way  home. 
Her  dress  for  the  next  night  was  already  selected 
with  a  view  to  his  admiration — she  knew  his  favorite 
color  was  red. 

Naturally  there  was  to  be  a  bitter  dispute  when 
Dan  flatly  opposed  her  going.  She  told  him  at  din 
ner  that  night  about  her  day;  he  half  listening,  as 
was  his  way  of  late  when  he  was  oppressed  with  busi 
ness.  But  the  mention  of  the  dance  roused  him. 

101 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"I  thought  it  was  settled  a  week  ago  that  you  were 
not  to  go/'  he  said  wearily. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  could  have  been  settled  when 
I  didn't  agree  with  you,"  Anna  retorted. 

Dan  rehearsed  his  arguments,  she  her  refutations. 
She  thought  his  excessive  carefulness  for  her,  his 
"worrying  over  her,"  unnecessary  and  stupid.  Fi 
nally,  since  he  was,  this  time,  really  obstinate,  Anna 
bethought  herself  of  a  new  resource,  holding  in  re 
serve  the  last  resort  of  tears. 

"I'll  ask  Mrs.  Goodwin,"  she  said.  "She  knows 
all  about  it,  and  I'm  sure  she'll  think  you're  silly." 

"Better  ask  the  doctor,"  growled  Dan. 

Anna  thought  him  very  disagreeable.  He  left  the 
table  and  betook  himself  with  a  cigar  to  a  pile  of 
papers,  over  which  he  was  still  working  late  in  the 
evening.  Anna  had  seen  that  he  was  getting  more 
and  more  absorbed  in  his  business;  that  in  proportion 
as  he  talked  less  about  it  he  was  more  often  nervous, 
tired,  irritable,  and  indisposed  to  talk  about  anything. 
Anna  sometimes  resented  this  mood  of  his,  some 
times  ignored  it;  never  tried  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it. 

At  luncheon  the  next  day  she  had  a  report  for  Dan, 
who  made  one  of  his  rare  mid-day  appearances. 

"Mrs.  Goodwin  says  that  once  she  slipped  and  fell 
down  a  flight  of  stairs  and  it  never  did  her  the  least 
harm,"  she  said  triumphantly. 

"That  doesn't  prove  anything,"  Dan  replied. 

Anna  was  voluble  in  explanations  that  it  did;  but 
after  luncheon,  when  Dan  had  lit  his  cigar,  kissed  her 
good-bye  and  gone  to  put  on  his  coat,  she  followed 
him  into  the  hall.  She  was  too  proud  to  lie,  even  to 
suppress  truth  unfavorable  to  her. 

102 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Mrs.  Goodwin  said  there  was  a  risk/'  she  re 
luctantly  said.  "And  that  nobody  could  tell  whether 
it  would  be  safe  for  me  or  not." 

"There,  you  see.  Now  you"ll  give  it  up,  won't 
you,  dearest?"  he  implored. 

Then  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  and  gushed  over. 

"Just  this  once,"  she  pleaded,  "and  I  promise 
I'll  never  ask  again." 

And  she  sobbed  at  the  forlorn  sound  of  the  words. 

Dan's  over-strained  nerves  gave  way.  He  flung 
angrily  out  of  the  house. 

"Goon,  then — but  I  won't  go  with  you,"  was  his 
last  word. 

Anna  calmly  went  on  and  made  her  preparations; 
and  at  the  last  moment  he  gave  in,  as  she  had  known 
he  would,  afraid  to  let  her  go  alone. 

As  though  she  had  known  that  it  was  really  the 
end,  not  only  of  the  season,  but  of  the  gay  life  she 
had  hoped  for,  Anna  blazed  out  that  night  in  beauty 
that  extinguished  every  other  woman  in  the  room. 
In  her  scarlet  dress  she  was,  many  of  them  said,  too 
startling,  too  big,  too  much  of  everything.  But  she 
was  the  most  constant  centre  of  attention.  The 
room,  red  being  the  main  note  of  its  decoration, 
seemed  designed  as  a  setting  for  her.  She  had  a  lap 
full  of  favors,  which  Dan  was  commissioned  to  keep. 

And  this  time  she  had  no  pity  on  his  boredom  and 
ill-concealed  uneasiness.  She  danced  the  few  dances 
before  the  cotillion — they  had  come  late.  At  supper 
she  was  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,  away  from  Dan,  talk 
ing  and  laughing  gayly.  And  she  danced  through 
the  cotillion — Dan  was  none  too  pleased  to  see  De 
Ronde  as  her  partner — rather  wildly  toward  the  end. 

103 


THE  FORERUNNER 

At  three  in  the  morning  the  dance  had  become  a 
romp.  Some  of  the  men  were  decidedly  unsteady, 
for  though  no  wine  was  served  with  the  supper  there 
were  evidently  private  sources  of  refreshment. 

It  was  one  of  these  men,  whirling  with  a  giggling 
girl  in  his  arms,  round  the  room,  who  managed  some 
how,  by  stumbling  over  her  train,  to  precipitate  their 
combined  weight  against  De  Ronde  as  he  tried  to  turn 
Anna  out  of  their  way.  He  was  quick,  but  too  slight 
to  resist  the  inevitable  collision.  They  were  on  the 
edge  of  the  floor.  Anna  was  thrown  violently  against 
the  line  of  chairs,  and  dropped  into  one,  De  Ronde 
saving  her  from  falling.  He  came  to  his  knees  on  the 
floor,  while  the  cause  of  the  trouble  suffered  not  at  all. 

Dan,  watching  sombrely  from  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  was  the  first  to  see  Anna's  mishap,  and  the 
first  at  her  side.  He  cut  short  the  apologies  of  the 
culprit  and  of  De  Ronde,  and  Anna's  assurances  that 
she  was  not  the  least  hurt.  In  reality  she  was  as 
white  as  he. 

"Don't  make  a  scene,"  she  whispered,  as  he  lifted 
her  to  her  feet. 

"Come  away!" 

"Of  course.    It's  over  anyway,"  she  smiled. 

In  fact,  the  music  had  stopped,  and  they  were  only 
among  the  first  to  leave.  Anna  insisted  on  saying 
her  good-nights,  and  on  having  all  her  favors  gathered 
up  and  carried  home  with  her.  When  they  got  into 
the  carriage  she  began  to  cry  from  the  shock,  and  by 
the  end  of  the  rather  long  drive  she  was  in  pain  and 
terrified. 

It  was  two  hours  after  they  reached  home  before 
the  doctor  came — the  longest  two  hours  of  Dan's  life. 

104 


THE  FORERUNNER 

There  was  no  sleep  for  him  that  night,  nor  for  several 
nights  after.  Though  a  nurse  was  installed  the  next 
day,  he  insisted  on  watching  by  Anna;  and  spent 
most  of  his  time,  day  as  well  as  night,  in  her  darkened 
room,  mourning  over  her,  and  blaming  his  own  weak 
ness.  He  found  no  time  to  grieve  over  the  end  of 
their  hope  for  the  child,  till  Anna  was  beginning  to 
get  her  strength  back,  and  the  slow  process  of  recovery 
plainly  begun. 

Not  till  then,  either,  did  he  feel  the  full  force  of  the 
financial  blow  that  had  fallen  on  him.  It  was  during 
the  first  days  of  Anna's  illness  that  the  sale  at  Elaine 
took  place.  And  while  she  was  too  weak  to  share  or 
know  anything  about  any  new  misfortune  he  had  to 
face  the  result — complete  and  crushing  failure. 


105 


VIII. 

A  S  a  huge  breaker,  piling  up  higher  and  higher  in 
-~  its  onward  rush,  halts  for  an  instant  at  the  high 
est  before  it  falls,  so  in  the  craze  of  speculation  there 
had  come  a  sudden  lull.  Just  before  the  holidays  the 
volume  of  sales  dropped  in  a  few  days  nearly  one- 
fourth,  and  at  once  a  good  many  timid  people,  and 
those  who  were  only  slightly  involved,  began  to  "pull 
out  from  under."  But  the  greater  number  were 
those  who  did  not  see  the  crest  of  the  wave  impend 
ing  and  curling  to  the  crash  over  them,  but  were  car 
ried  along  in  it,  and  could  not  realize  that  its  strength 
was  spent.  They  felt  the  pause,  but  took  it  lightly 
enough;  the  holiday  season  was  not  a  good  one  for 
business — the  new  year  would  see  a  fresh  start,  and 
a  faster  pace  than  ever.  Among  these  sanguine  souls 
was  Daniel  Devin,  who  had  simply  postponed  the 
sale  at  Elaine  until  the  second  week  in  January,  and 
meanwhile  made  no  effort  to  sell  anything. 

But  the  number  who  were  trying  to  sell  was  by  no 
means  inconsiderable,  and  had  the  natural  effect  on 
the  market.  The  amount  of  sales  dropped  in  two 
weeks  more  to  one-fourth,  to  one-eighth.  The  holi 
days  were  past  now.  Several  Pullman  excursions 
had  come  in;  the  tourists  crowded  every  hotel  and 
lodging-house,  but  they  kept  their  money  in  their 
pockets.  The  whole  city  then  began  to  be  sensible 
that  something  serious  had  happened.  The  citizens 

106 


THE  FORERUNNER 

blamed  the  coming  Presidential  election,  the  tax  col 
lector,  and  the  envy  of  the  Eastern  newspapers,  which 
for  some  months  had  been  filled  with  abuse  of  Cali 
fornia  and  the  boom,  as  much  exaggerated  as  their 
previous  praise  had  been.  But  still  they  could  not 
believe  that  they  would  have  to  wait  till  spring  for 
the  rush  to  begin  again. 

So  Dan  felt  at  least,  and  taking  the  day  after  a 
Pullman  excursion  reached  the  city,  he  risked  his 
sale.  That  it  was  a  risk  he  knew,  but  he  was  obliged 
to  take  it.  A  note  for  $5,000,  held  by  De  Ronde's 
bank,  fell  due  in  a  week,  and  he  would  have  to  meet 
it.  Within  a  few  days  he  had  paid  half  that  amount 
to  Emmons's  representative,  and  as  much  more  on  a 
note  to  another  bank.  The  first  payment  to  Rath- 
geber,  the  cost  of  the  material  and  work  on  the  town- 
site,  and  his  living  expenses,  had  swallowed  up  his 
ready  money,  the  proceeds  of  his  sale  on  the  Emmons 
ranch.  He  held  notes  at  sixty  and  ninety  days  for 
the  second  and  third  payments  on  that  land,  and  if 
he  could  have  collected  their  amount,  or  even  half  of 
it,  he  might  have  tided  over.  But  out  of  forty  thou 
sand  dollars  due,  he  could  get  only  five  thousand. 

The  scramble  had  begun.  Now  it  was  save  him 
self  who  can.  The  banks  called  in  their  loans.  The 
real-estate  market  was  swamped  with  all  kinds  of 
holdings,  thrown  in  for  what  they  would  bring. 
Money  tightened  with  a  snap.  There  was  no  more 
coming  into  the  community.  There  was  a  vast 
amount  still  going  out  for  lumber,  water-pipe,  rail 
road  iron  and  cement,  material  already  ordered  for 
improvements;  and  for  the  luxuries  of  the  table  and 
of  dress,  suitable  to  the  station  of  prospective  million- 

107 


THE  FORERUNNER 

naires.  The  moment  the  wheels  stopped  this  drain 
became  unbearable. 

It  was  on  the  edge  of  the  resulting  panic  that  Dan 
tried  to  launch  his  enterprise.  With  the  clatter  and 
blare  of  a  brass  band  to  head  the  procession;  wagons 
filled  with  lumber  for  the  hotel,  so  labelled  that  all 
who  ran  might  read;  omnibuses  placarded  with  the 
offer  of  a  free  ride  and  a  free  lunch  and  a  glowing 
description  of  the  property,  he  strove  to  lure  the 
stranger.  For  it  was  certain  that  the  native  could  buy 
no  more,  even  if  he  would. 

The  day  was  a  perfect  one;  the  air  cool,  clear  and 
sunlit;  and  in  every  dooryard  and  vacant  space  grass 
and  trees  were  green,  and  flowers  bloomed  incon 
tinently.  The  tourist  might  read  in  his  morning 
paper  of  the  blizzards  under  which  cowered  the  frozen 
East,  together  with  a  complacent  editorial  comparison 
of  the  temperatures  of  New  York  and  Los  Angeles. 
Nor  could  he  gather  from  the  columns  of  the  paper 
that  the  boom  was  not  still  progressing  toward  its 
apogee.  If  he  went  out  on  the  streets  he  would  still 
find  them  crowded,  would  still  hear  the  familiar  bray 
of  the  brass  brand,  and  see  work  on  the  new  monster 
hotel  and  numerous  other  buildings  still  going  on.  And 
yet  he  bought  not. 

Dan's  omnibuses  were  full  of  well-to-do  excursion 
ists  who  went  to  look  on  at  the  much-heralded  nov 
elty  of  a  land-auction,  but  who  had  not  the  remotest 
notion  of  buying  any  "wild-cat  town  lots."  In  the 
early  days  of  the  boom  or  at  its  meridian  such  a  crowd 
had  often  been  swept  off  its  feet  by  the  contagion  of 
enthusiasm  aided  by  the  arts  and  eloquence  of  the 
auctioneer.  But  now  the  general  temperature  had 

108 


THE   FORERUNNER 

dropped  to  freezing-point.  Mr.  Stoneman's  most 
dulcet  tones  fell  into  this  icy  void  and  brought  no 
response.  Dan  was  too  late.  The  tread  of  ten  thou 
sand  had  trampled  down  his  field.  And  though  his 
spirit  had  been  very  different  from  that  of  the  self- 
recognized  speculator  who  aimed  simply  to  exploit 
the  country  for  his  own  profit  and  to  get  out  before 
the  inevitable  crash,  yet  he  was  confounded  in  the 
result  with  the  less  shrewd  of  those  gentry,  who  had 
merely  miscalculated  the  time  when  the  crash  would 
be  due. 

Dan  had  not  taken  a  possible  crash  into  account  at 
all,  until  the  shadow  of  it  was  upon  him.  He  had  a 
genuine  faith  and  expectation  that  the  country  would 
honor  the  large  draft  drawn  against  it.  And  it  was 
inevitable  that  he  should  back  that  faith  heavily. 
He  would  have  considered  that  otherwise  he  should 
not  deserve  success.  Dan  never  feared  his  fate;  in 
his  opinion  his  desert  was  large;  and  therefore  he 
dared,  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  rhyme,  "put  it  to  the 
touch,  to  win  or  lose  it  all/'  He  would  have  held  that 
fortune  does  not  reward  the  niggardly;  or  at  least 
that  it  is  not  worth  while  being  niggardly,  for  any 
fortune.  And  to  reconcile  these  two  positions — that 
of  the  soldier  of  fortune  who  risks  himself  with  gen 
erous  freedom,  and  that  of  the  business  man  who  is 
simply  confident  that  he  has  a  good  thing — it  is  only 
necessary  to  appeal  to  Dan's  temperament.  He 
was  both.  But  he  considered  himself  a  business  man. 
He  took  extraordinary  risks  easily  by  virtue  of  not 
regarding  them  as  such;  by  regarding  them  as  the 
ordinary  chances  which  any  man  of  spirit  and  enter 
prise  must  take. 

109 


THE  FORERUNNER 

In  the  present  instance,  indeed,  he  had  done  only 
what  many  of  his  associates  did  without  real  loss. 
He  had  ' 'played  on  velvet."  He  had  used  in  specu 
lation  only  the  money  that  he  had  made  in  real  estate 
in  the  two  years  past.  That,  to  be  sure,  was  all  the 
ready  money  he  possessed.  But  he  still  had  what  he 
started  with — his  stock  in  the  ClarioUj  and,  nominally 
at  least,  his  position  on  the  paper;  though  he  had  not 
done  any  work  on  it  for  months,  nor  drawn  his  salary 
of  thirty  dollars  a  week.  His  place  had  not  been 
filled.  During  boom- time  the  most  pressing  need 
was  for  clerks  to  take  care  of  the  business  that  came 
in,  rather  than  a  manager  to  work  it  up.  Dan  often 
met  the  owner  of  the  Clarion  outside  and  was  on  per 
fectly  friendly  terms  with  him.  So  far,  he  stood  on 
his  old  footing,  or  at  least  could  regain  it. 

If  he  had  imitated  the  more  cautious  speculators 
in  another  respect,  and  bought  his  sixty-acre  tract 
practically  on  an  option,  he  might  have  been  able  to 
free  himself  from  his  minor  entanglements.  But 
Rathgeber  had  been  shrewd  and  obstinate,  and  he 
had  Dan's  note. 

Before  that  note  matured  in  the  middle  of  Feb 
ruary  it  was  evident  to  the  most  hopeful  that  the 
boom  was  "busted."  The  bottom  was  out  and  the 
pieces  were  not  worth  saving.  The  paper  million- 
naires  were  now  land-poor.  Most  of  them,  like  Dan, 
had  spread  out  their  money  to  hold  as  much  land  as 
possible,  and  now  tried  to  throw  this  land  back  on 
the  market  to  save  the  first  payment — with  failure 
like  his.  Dan  could  not  sell  a  rod  of  his  land.  But 
he  managed  to  meet  the  note  held  by  De  Ronde's 
bank;  though  to  do  it  he  had  not  only  to  sell  his 

110 


THE   FORERUNNER 

horses  and  carriages,  and  give  a  chattel  mortgage  on 
his  furniture,  but  also  to  help  push  into  bankruptcy 
a  man  who  had  been  a  large  buyer  at  the  Emmons 


But  what  of  that?  The  whole  town  was  bankrupt, 
it  seemed  to  Dan,  except  indeed  the  banks  and  loan 
agents.  Hundreds  of  families  were  ruined;  were 
leaving  their  homes  for  smaller  quarters,  giving  up 
all  luxuries,  and  in  many  cases  what  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  necessaries — servants,  for  ex 
ample — and  when  possible  leaving  the  city.  Among 
these  were  many  of  the  acquaintances  the  Devins  had 
made  during  their  brief  social  career. 

It  was  impossible  that  Anna  should  not  know  what 
was  happening,  though  Dan  kept  it  from  her  as  long 
as  he  could.  As  she  grew  strong  enough  to  leave  her 
bed,  though  not  the  house,  she  wondered  why  her 
visitors,  instead  of  increasing  in  number,  fell  off. 
Then  she  began  to  hear  tales  of  trouble,  though  not 
first  from  her  own  family.  Dan  had  forbidden  Mrs. 
Quartermain  to  talk  to  Anna  on  the  subject,  but  he 
could  not  control  the  tongues  of  all  her  feminine  call 
ers.  Elise  Andrews,  the  friend  of  Anna's  girlhood, 
was  earliest  in  the  field  with  her  hard-luck  story. 
Her  father  had  been  a  prosperous  lawyer  and  chief 
support  of  Mr.  Quartermain's  church.  They  lived 
in  a  large  old-fashioned  house  on  what  was  now  one 
of  the  main  business  streets.  That  house  had  been 
sold,  and  they  were  moving  into  a  "bandbox"  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  city;  and,  Elise  wept  as  she  told  it, 
she  could  now  not  be  married  in  the  spring,  as  she 
had  expected.  Charley's  father  was  ruined,  too. 
And  Charley,  who  had  never  done  any  work  in  his 

111 


THE   FORERUNNER 

life,  would  at  twenty-seven  be  obliged  to  earn  his 
own  living.  He  was  trying  to  find  something  to  do. 

Anna  was  shocked,  and,  being  still  nervously  weak, 
cried  too.  And  later  in  the  afternoon,  when  her 
mother  made  her  almost  daily  visit,  Anna  poured  out 
the  story  to  her.  Mrs.  Quartermain  burst  into  tea' s. 

"They  aren't  the  only  ones,"  she  sobbed.  "Since 
Mr.  Andrews  failed,  all  the  well-to-do  people  in  the 
church  have  either  left  or  lost  their  money,  too.  Your 
father  hasn't  had  any  of  his  salary  for  two  months. 
I  don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do.  You  are  very 
lucky  if  Daniel  has  managed  to  pull  through  all  right." 

Anna  began  to  tremble.  When  the  man  had  come 
to  take  an  inventory  of  the  furniture  Dan  had  told 
her  that  he  was  having  it  insured.  When,  on  the  oc 
casion  of  her  first  drive  a  fortnight  since,  she  had 
noticed  with  surprise  the  inferior  team  and  carriage, 
Dan  had  said  carelessly,  "Yes,  these  are  hired.  I 
sold  the  others — was  too  busy  to  drive  them  and  they 
were  eating  their  heads  off  in  the  stable."  And  he 
had  promised  to  buy  others  for  her. 

Now  she  thought  of  the  horses,  though  not  of  the 
furniture.  She  resolved  to  question  Dan  that  night; 
and  controlling  herself  proudly,  replied  to  her  mother : 

"Oh,  we're  all  right.  Something  must  be  done 
about  father.  I  will  talk  to  Dan  about  it." 

Then  she  threw  herself  back  among  her  cushions 
and  shut  her  eyes;  that  was  the  signal  for  her  mother's 
departure. 

Anna  lay  still  for  a  long  time;  and  only  the  flutter 
ing  of  her  closed  eyelids  might  show  that  she  was  not 
asleep.  She  had  lost  both  in  weight  and  color  by  her 
illness;  the  former  at  least  a  gain  in  actual  beauty, 

112 


THE   FORERUNNER 

In  the  soft  loose  white  dress  her  figure  looked  younger, 
more  girlish  than  before,  and  her  face,  pale  and  with 
the  chastened  look  of  physical  weakness,  was  more 
appealing. 

She  was  questioning  her  memory  to  know  if  there 

was  anything  beside  the  incident  of  the  horses . 

No,  she  could  not  find  anything.  The  house  had  been 
kept  up,  so  far  as  she  knew,  just  as  usual.  Dan  had 
seen  to  everything — the  ordering  and  so  on.  The 
servants  were  the  same.  She  had  had  expensive 
food,  fruit,  flowers,  and  old  port.  And  she  had  not 
seen  any  bills.  Most  likely  it  was  all  right.  Sup 
posing  some  people  were  ruined?  There  were  the 
Goodwins,  for  instance,  who  weren't.  Mrs.  Goodwin 
was  going  abroad  for  a  year.  She  had  been  Anna's 
most  constant  and  cheerful  visitor.  Surely  she  must 
have  known,  if  anything  was  wrong. 

That  afternoon  Dan  made  his  first  visit  in  weeks 
at  the  Clarion  office  and  had  a  long  talk  with  the 
owner,  Eldridge,  in  his  private  room.  He  wanted  to 
realize  on  his  Clarion  stock,  the  only  available  asset 
that  he  now  had. 

Eldridge,  a  stout,  untidy  man  with  a  cool  gray  eye 
and  a  sceptical  mouth,  heard  him  through  with  only 
a  nod  here  and  there,  and  then  said,  shifting  his  cigar 
to  the  corner  of  his  mouth: 

"Hadn't  you  better  stay  with  us?" 

"How  can  I?"  said  Dan.  He  had  been  walking  up 
and  down  the  small  space  not  occupied  by  Eldridge's 
colossal  desk  and  chairs,  files  of  papers,  a  movable 
book-case,  spittoons,  a  fox-terrier,  and  a  safe.  Now 
he  flung  himself  into  a  chair  fronting  the  light  of  the 
unshaded  windows  and  Eldridge's  gaze.  He  looked 

113 


THE  FORERUNNER 

tired,  his  eyes  slightly  blood-shot,  his  ruddy  color  a 
little  faded,  but  he  was  as  carefully  shaved,  dressed 
and  brushed  as  ever. 

"Well,  thirty  a  week  isn't  much,  I  know,  but  it's 
something/'  Eldridge  drawled.  "I  know  plenty  of 
fellows  that  were  driving  their  own  horses  and  drink 
ing  champagne  a  month  ago,  that  would  be  glad  to 
get  it.  But  I  don't  want  them,  I  want  you.  I  can't 
offer  you  any  more  now,  for  we're  trimming  our  sails 
pretty  close  at  present.  But  mind  you,  the  Clarion's 
as  solid  as  a  rock,  and  we'll  weather  it,  and  there's 
something  ahead  for  you.  There  are  mighty  few 
men  with  the  amount  of  hustle  that  you've  got  in  this 
country — and  there'll  be  still  fewer  by  spring." 

"That's  it,"  Dan  said  gloomily.  "Hustling  isn't 
going  to  pay  in  this  town  for  some  time  to  come. 
And  I  can't  live  on  air  meanwhile.  I  reckon  I'll 
have  to  join  the  procession  and  move  out,  if  I  can 
get  out." 

"Well,  there  you  are.  You  can't  get  out  at  pres 
ent  with  anything  but  your  skin.  Your  stock  in 
this  paper  is  worth  five  thousand  dollars.  If  you 
force  a  sale  now  you  can't  get  more  than  two.  I'll 
give  you  two  thousand  for  it,  and  I  venture  to  say 
that  nobody  else  in  town  will  give  you  a  cent.  Arid 
that's  not  because  anybody  doubts  the  Clarion,  but 
because  nobody's  buying  anything  except  grub  these 
days.  And  not  too  damn  much  of  that.  Now,  thirty 
dollars  a  week  will  at  least  give  you  grub,  and  if  you'll 
take  my  advice  you'll  take  that,  and  hold  on — and  a 
year  or  so  will  see  us  through  the  pinch." 

"A  year  or  so,"  Dan  said  bitterly.  "I  can't  do  it. 
My  wife — she  isn't  well,  and  I  can't  ask  her  to  rough 

114 


THE   FORERUNNER 

it.  And  then,  confound  it — I — I  can't  go  back  and 
do  what  I  was  doing  two  years  ago." 

Eldridge  smiled  cynically. 

"I  know.  You've  been  feeling  your  oats — you've 
been  living  pretty  high — independent  capitalist  and 
all  that.  You  don't  want  to  go  into  harness  again — 
natural  enough.  But,  my  dear  boy,  you'll  see  worse 
falls  than  that  among  the  high-flyers  yet,  mark  my 
words.  And  it  won't  hurt  the  country,  either.  We'll 
be  pretty  dead  for  a  year,  I  grant  you — maybe  two. 
But  I  don't  believe  a  bank  will  go  under.  I  don't 
believe  an  important  business  house  of  any  kind,  ex 
cept  the  few  that  had  fools  at  the  head  of  them,  will 
fail.  And  you  can't  keep  this  town  down  long.  She's 
bound  to  come  up  again,  and  when  she  does,  we'll 
come  with  her.  No  more  booms,  though." 

Eldridge  puffed  at  his  cigar  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence.  Dan  was  looking  absently  out  of  the  window. 
Finally,  he  glanced  at  Eldridge  and  shook  his  head 
smiling. 

"Not  good  enough,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  come,  what  have  you  got  up  your  sleeve?" 
demanded  Eldridge. 

"I  have  got  something,  that's  a  fact,"  Dan  ad 
mitted.  "Something  that  takes  me  well  out  of  this 
country.  So  I'll  trouble  you  for  that  two  thousand 
if  convenient." 

"Can't  you  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"Not  now — too  indefinite.  I  will,  though,  when  it's 
decided." 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door  and  a  card  was 
brought  in  to  Eldridge. 

"Ask  him  to  wait  a  few  minutes,"  he  said.  "And 
115 


THE   FORERUNNER 

here" — writing  a  few  words  on  a  Clarion  letter-head — 
"take  that  down  to  Mr.  Farman,  and  wait  and  bring 
me  his  answer. " 

He  turned  to  Dan. 

"I'm  having  a  check  made  out  for  what's  due  you 
on  salary — it  must  be  two  or  three  hundred." 

"Well — I  don't  know  that  it  is  due — it  strikes  me 
I  haven't  been  earning  any  salary  lately,"  Dan  said, 
with  some  embarrassment. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  You're  on  the  books,  you 
know.  And  in  a  way  you  helped  to  work  up  a  big  busi 
ness  for  us  in  the  last  year,"  and  Eldridge  chuckled, 
not  unkindly. 

When  the  check  was  brought,  Dan  rose,  and  the 
two  men  shook  hands  heartily. 

"If  you  change  your  mind,  so  much  the  better," 
Eldridge  repeated.  "If  not,  come  round  and  we'll  fix 
up  that  matter  in  a  day  or  so." 

"You're  a  good  fellow,"  said  Dan.  "I'd  stay  with 
you  if  anybody,  Eldridge.  But  it's  no  use,  I  couldn't 
stand  it.  I  can  count  on  the  two  thousand?" 

"Oh,  you  can  count  on  it,  all  right.  I'll  make  fifty 
per  cent.  Only" — he  caught  Dan  by  the  arm — "be 
fore  you  put  it  into  anything  else,  for  the  Lord's  sake 
let  me  know,  will  you?  I  know  a  gold  brick  at  longer 
range  than  you  do." 

Dan  promised  carelessly  and  went  away  lighter  at 
heart,  not  only  from  the  prospect  of  the  two  thousand 
dollars,  but  also  the  actual  possession  of  a  much 
smaller  amount.  The  check  was  for  three  hundred 
dollars,  and  was  welcome  out  of  all  proportion  to  its 
size.  It  would  not  pay  the  tradesmen's  bills — which 
Dan  tore  up  as  fast  as  he  got  them,  so  that  Anna 

116 


THE   FORERUNNER 

should  not  see  them — but  it  would  help  him  to  make 
the  move  which  he  had  now  practically  decided  on. 

When  he  reached  the  house  he  found  Anna  lying 
as  her  mother  had  left  her,  thought  her  asleep,  and 
was  leaving  the  room  on  tiptoe  when  she  spoke  to 
him.  Her  voice  was  languid,  dragged  a  little  as  it 
never  had  done  before  her  illness.  Dan  pulled  up  a 
chair  beside  her  sofa  and  sat  down. 

"Whew,  I'm  tired,"  he  sighed,  rubbing  his  hands 
over  his  face  and  hair.  "How  are  you,  dearest?" 

"Oh,  about  the  same.  I  have  been  rather  upset 
to-day — mother  and  Elise  were  here,  both  in  the 
dumps  and  crying " 

"Damn  it!"  cried  Dan,  setting  his  teeth.  "Your 
mother  promised  me  she  wouldn't  bother  you.  Til 
keep  the  whole  lot  of  them  out  now — confound 
women,  anyhow!" 

"Don't  be  angry  and  swear,  you  bad  boy — it  is  just 
as  bad  as  crying."  Anna  put  out  her  hand  from  un 
der  the  shawl  that  covered  her  and  smiled.  In  reality 
she  rather  liked  to  see  him  angry,  and  to  hear  him 
swear,  in  behalf  of  herself.  And  the  sight  of  him,  the 
strength  and  energy  which  she  felt  in  him  the  more 
from  her  own  physical  weakness  and  languor,  com 
forted  her,  drove  away  the  vaguer  and  more  terrible 
fears  that  had  haunted  her.  Dan  had  not  the  look 
of  failure.  But  he  did  look  tired  out.  He  put  her 
fingers  to  his  lips;  then  slid  down  on  the  floor  and 
laid  his  head  against  her  shoulder,  sighing  deeply. 

"It's  a  shame  they  should  bother  you,"  he  repeated 
drowsily.  "Lord,  how  sleepy  I  am!  I  haven't 
stopped  all  day  except  for  a  piece  of  pie  and  glass  of 
milk  at  noon." 

117 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Don't  go  to  sleep  now,  it's  dinner  time,"  said 
Anna.  " Besides  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"All  right— I'm  listening." 

She  stroked  his  forehead  lightly  with  the  tips  of 
her  fingers. 

"How  long  your  hair  is!  There  are  little  rings 
here  over  your  ear." 

"Yes;  must  get  it  cut  to-morrow." 

"And  you  are  getting  gray,  do  you  know  it?  There 
are  lots  of  white  hairs  at  your  temples — why,  I  never 
noticed  them  before!" 

"I'm  getting  old — twelve  years  older  than  you,  you 
know.  I  feel  about  a  hundred  to-night." 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  Anna  nervously  plunged 
in.  "I  have  been  so  worried.  Mother  hinted  there 
might  be  something  wrong.  So  many  people  are 
having  hard  times.  But  you  wouldn't  keep  it  from 
me,  would  you?" 

He  was  silent  and  only  tightened  his  grasp  on  her 
hand. 

"Dan!" 

Now  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you,  when  you  were  ill." 

She  pushed  him  away  and  sat  up. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is!  How  bad  is  it?  Have  we  lost 
everything,  like  the  Andrews?" 

Then  Dan,  with  a  certain  sense  of  relief  that  he 
could  speak  out  at  last,  found  himself  trying  to  ex 
plain  the  situation  to  an  excited  woman  who  could 
not  grasp  the  beginnings  of  it. 

"But  why  did  you  keep  all  this  from  me?  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  how  you  were  risking  your 

money ?" 

118 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  often  tried,  but  you  wouldn't  listen.  You  never 
wanted  to  hear  anything  about  business." 

"But  I  never  thought  you  would  do  anything  like 
this!  I  trusted  you — I  thought  your  business  was 
safe.  You  certainly  gave  me  that  impression." 

"I  thought  so  myself  till  a  month  or  so  ago/'  said 
Dan  meekly. 

He  was  not  beaten  down  by  Anna's  reproaches. 
He  thought  it  perfectly  natural  that  she  should  be 
upset,  and  she  had  taken  it  better  than  he  expected. 
If  only  she  did  not  break  down  and  cry — he  could 
stand  her  anger  much  more  easily.  She  did  not  look 
like  crying.  She  sat  bolt  upright,  renewed  color  in 
her  face  and  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  much  like  her  old  self. 

"How  bad  is  it?"  she  demanded.  "What  must 
we  do?" 

Dan  responded  freely,  frankly,  gladly.  Her  atti 
tude  helped  him  immensely.  Not  to  cry  over  spilt 
milk,  but  to  turn  to  the  future  and  action — that  was 
brave  of  her!  It  was  his  own  way,  but  he  had  not 
dared  expect  it  of  a  frail  feminine  creature — at  least, 
not  at  first.  Happily  he  had  a  definite  plan  and 
course  already  mapped  out. 

Throwing  himself  again  into  the  chair  facing  her 
— and  wide-awake  enough  now — he  took  half  a  dozen 
letters  from  his  breast-pocket,  read  them  to  her,  in 
terspersing  them  with  comments,  and  then  laid  them 
one  above  the  other  on  her  knee.  Anna  sat  silent, 
her  face  and  body  rigid  and  her  color  slowly  dying 
out.  The  technical  details  of  Dan's  proposition  es 
caped  her;  she  gathered  that  the  letters  were  from 
a  man  in  Wyoming,  and  concerned  a  copper-mine  in 
which  he  wanted  Dan  to  invest,  promising  that  it 

119 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Would  make  the  fortune  of  all  concerned  if  it  were 
once  developed.  These  letters  had  been  written  to 
Dan  as  a  moneyed  man  in  the  flush  of  success;  but 
Manlove  asked  him,  in  case  he  couldn't  see  his  way 
to  investing  himself,  to  try  and  send  some  capital  his 
way,  and  offered  a  large  commission. 

"You  mean  we  should  leave  here?"  Anna  said  when 
she  had  gone  over  them  all. 

"For  a  time,  anyway.  We  might  come  back  if  you 
think  you  would  rather  live  here." 

"I  don't  know  any  other  place.  But  I  shouldn't 
like  to  stay  on  here  and  be  poor.  Have  we  lost  every 
thing?" 

Then  Dan  explained  again.  What  they  had  lost 
was  his  profit  of  two  years.  They  still  had  what 
he  had  started  with,  his  stock  and  position  on  the 
Clarion. 

"Eldridge  asked  me  to  come  back.  But  the  salary 
is  small.  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  it — and  you  wouldn't 
either,  would  you?  It  is  only  thirty  dollars  a  week." 

"No,  indeed!  If  you  can  do  anything  better.  But 
I  don't  understand  about  profits!  I  thought  really 
that  when  we  were  married  you  had  a  good  deal  of 
property." 

The  action  of  the  boom  upon  property  could  not 
at  once  be  grasped  by  Anna's  intelligence.  What 
she  did  grasp  was  that  Dan  had  been  strangely  fool 
ish,  but  that  there  were  extenuating  circumstances, 
namely,  for  one,  the  number  of  other  foolish  persons 
in  the  same  predicament.  It  was  a  good  deal  of 
comfort  to  Anna  to  know  that  the  Richardsons,  the 
Morgans,  the  Damons  and  many  another  were  ruined 
too;  even  that  Charley  Feltner,  Elise's  fiance,  had 

120 


THE   FORERUNNER 

taken  a  clerkship  at  ten  dollars  a  week,  and  that  the 
two  daughters  of  Judge  Carpenter  were  trying  to  get 
positions  as  typewritists.  It  was  not  that  she  re 
joiced  in  the  misfortune  of  these  persons — but  it  was 
necessary  to  her  to  feel  that  she  could  still  have  con 
fidence  in  Dan.  Where  so  many  solid  men  had  gone 
down  his  failure  lost  something  of  its  personal  aspect, 
and  seemed  more  a  part  of  a  public  calamity. 

So  she  shed  no  tears;  and  though  the  coldness  of 
her  manner  showed  that  she  had  by  no  means  for 
given  Dan,  their  dinner  that  night  was  more  animated 
than  for  some  time  past.  To  be  sure,  it  was  Dan  who 
supplied  the  animation.  He  talked  eagerly  about 
the  Wyoming  enterprise.  He  had  an  astonishing 
amount  of  details  and  figures  at  his  fingers'  ends,  and 
poured  them  out  with  nervous  profusion.  Mainly 
they  were  Greek  to  Anna.  She  listened  half-absently, 
still  bewildered  from  the  shock,  trying  to  adjust  her 
self  to  the  new  situation.  What  questions  she  asked 
were  largely  about  the  character  of  the  country — 
how  were  they  to  live  there?  Dan  evaded  this 
point.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  sure  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  take  Anna  with  him,  but  he  left  this 
dreaded  point  in  doubt  till  after  his  return  from  a 
journey  of  inspection. 

Before  he  went  to  Wyoming  Dan  transferred  his 
Clarion  stock  to  Eldridge,  and  banked  the  two  thou 
sand  dollars  with  De  Ronde  in  Anna's  name.  He 
intended  to  pay  all  his  small  debts,  but  not  immedi 
ately.  Emmons,  too,  would  have  to  wait  for  his  last 
twenty-five  hundred.  Meantime  there  was  Rath- 
geber  to  be  reckoned  with.  The  note  that  he  held 
for  $10,000  was  now  due,  and  Dan  had  not  the  glim- 

121 


THE   FORERUNNER 

mering  of  a  possibility  of  paying  it.  He  went  out 
and  told  Rathgeber  so  very  frankly. 

"Well,  I  expected  it  would  be  so/'  said  the  old  man 
sarcastically.  "What  shall  we  do  about  it,  hem?" 

"I  have  paid  you  eight  thousand  dollars  for  land 
that  is  worth  now  about  fifty  dollars  an  acre/'  said 
Dan.  "Give  me  twenty  acres  clear  for  the  eight 
thousand,  and  take  back  the  other  forty;  or  else  take 
my  city  lots  in  payment  of  the  balance." 

Such  propositions  were  being  made  and  accepted 
every  day,  for  the  process  of  liquidation  had  begun 
immediately  after  the  crash. 

Rathgeber  refused. 

"But  I  will  not  press  for  de  ten  thousand,"  he  said. 
"Deed  me  back  de  sixty  acres  and  you  lose  de  eight 
t'ousand  dollars  only." 

That  was  the  rule  in  the  larger  number  of  such 
cases,  and  Dan,  after  some  protests,  found  himself 
obliged  to  yield. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  shortly.  "It's  a  hard  propo 
sition,  but  you  can  force  it,  of  course.  Let's  get  it 
over  with." 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Rathgeber  suddenly.  "I  don't 
want  to  be  hard.  I'm  rich  and  I  don't  need  to  be.  I 
tell  you  what  I  will  do.  You  promise  to  work  dot 
land  and  I  tear  up  your  note,  and  de  sixty  acres  are 
yours.  It's  a  shame  de  land  should  stand  idle,  and 
I  got  all  I  can  manage  now.  I  want  to  see  it  im 
proved.  You  take  it  and  work  it  and  I  sell  you  on 
credit  all  de  young  vines  and  trees  you  want;  and  I 
lend  you  some  money  to  start  with.  And  if  you 
come  out  here  to  settle  I  put  up  a  little  house.  Now 
what  do  you  say?  You  can't  help  but  make  money. 

122 


THE   FORERUNNER 

In  four,  five  years  you  have  a  nice  place  clear  of  debt 
paying  you  several  thousand  a  year.  You  will?" 

Genuine  anxiety  and  kindness  showed  in  his  rough 
face. 

"I  can't,"  Dan  said  slowly,  "I  can't  wait  so  long. 
My  wife — she  isn't  well  and  she  couldn't  live  out 
here.  And  we  couldn't  afford  to  live  in  town." 

He  was  thus  explicit  in  recognition  of  Rathgeber's 
good  intention. 

"We  will  do  all  we  can,"  urged  the  old  farmer.  "I 
put  up  a  nice  little  house.  And  Margaretha — she  is 
good;  she  will  be  glad  to  help  your  wife  so  much  as 
she  can.  Or  maybe  you  could  board  with  us  at  first. 
We  got  a  nice  spare  room " 

Dan  shook  his  head,  smiling  ruefully. 

"It  wouldn't  do.  You're  very  kind,  but  it's  im 
possible.  I've  made  other  plans.  I'm  going  away. 
I'll  have  to  accept  your  other  proposition.  Take  the 
land  and  give  me  back  my  note." 

So  it  was  settled  and  Dan  departed.  And  while 
Rathgeber,  pottering  about  his  roses,  shook  his  head 
every  now  and  then,  with  a  sigh  or  a  muttered  ex 
clamation,  "Too  bad!  Too  bad!"  Dan  on  his  way 
back  to  the  city  was  carrying  with  him  his  last  glimpse 
of  Blaine — a  patchwork  of  grass  and  raw  streaks  of 
red  earth,  a  few  tall,  lonely  poles,  piles  of  pine  lumber, 
lines  of  unconnected  lengths  of  pipe — all  those  useless, 
melancholy  relics,  cumbering  the  soil  in  which  he  had, 
as  Rathgeber  said,  "planted"  his  money — a  sterile 
seed. 


123 


IX. 


came  back  from  his  three  weeks'  stay  in 
Wyoming  refreshed,  full  of  life  and  enthusiasm. 
His  almost  daily  letters  had  kept  Anna  informed  of 
his  movements  and  given  her  some  idea  of  the  place 
and  the  prospect  to  which  he  was  committing  him 
self.  She  was  prepared,  therefore,  for  his  decision  in 
favor  of  an  immediate  removal,  and  also  in  a  measure 
for  their  temporary  separation. 

"If  you  were  perfectly  strong,"  Dan  said  sorrow 
fully,  "we  might  risk  your  going.  But  I  don't  dare 
take  you  there  now.  In  the  spring  or  summer  you 
shall  come,  unless  by  that  time  I  can  arrange  for  us 
to  live  in  some  place  that  you'd  like  better.  It  will 
only  be  two  or  three  months.  I  shall  be  working 
hard  —  you'll  be  getting  strong  —  and  in  a  year  at  most 
I'm  convinced  we  shall  be  on  our  feet  again.  There's 
a  fortune  in  those  mines,  without  a  doubt." 

If  he  had  urged  it  in  the  least  Anna  would  have 
gone  with  him  ;  she  wanted  to  go,  though  his  descrip 
tion  of  the  country,  in  spite  of  its  complete  novelty  to 
her,  excited  rather  terror  than  interest  in  her  mind. 
Of  two  hard  alternatives  she  would  have  preferred 
being  snowed  up  with  Dan  on  the  top  of  a  mountain 
to  being  left  alone  amid  the  wreck  of  her  short-lived 
comfort.  But  Dan's  conviction  that  it  was  impos 
sible  for  her  to  go  silenced  her.  He  was  inclined  al 
ways  to  under-estimate  her  strength,  to  expect  less  of 

124 


THE  FORERUNNER 

her  than  she  was  really  capable  of;  and  she  was  in 
clined  to  take  herself  at  his  estimate.  Being  treated 
as  a  hot-house  plant  to  which  the  rude  breath  of  the 
winter  would  be  dangerous,  she  resigned  herself,  with 
a  certain  listlessness,  to  be  one. 

Life  in  the  mining-town  where  Dan  must  establish 
himself  would  assuredly  be  a  sufficient  contrast  to 
anything  that  Anna  had  known.  She  heard  with 
astonishment  that  the  snow  now  lay  fifteen  and 
twenty  feet  deep  on  the  mountain-top  where  this 
little  settlement  of  Mallory  was  situated.  She  who 
had  never  seen  snow,  except  as  a  white  shimmer  oa 
far-away  mountain-peaks,  could  not  conceive  how 
it  would  seem  to  be  buried  in  it  as  Mallory  was  now; 
each  house  covered  up  to  the  second  story  (they  were 
all  built  with  two  stories  in  order  not  to  be  covered 
completely);  and  the  inhabitants  walking  out  from 
their  second-story  doors  upon  a  solid  crust  of  snow 
fifteen  feet  above  the  ground. 

Mallory,  Dan  told  her,  had  one  street,  thirteen 
houses,  two  stores,  and  a  "hotel,"  where  he  was  to 
live.  Near  it,  and  all  the  way  down  the  mountain 
slopes,  were  the  copper-mines,  whence  the  ore  was 
transported  by  sleighs  through  Grandview  and  River 
City,  larger  towns  in  the  valley,  to  Ralston  on  the 
railway,  and  thence  to  Denver  or  Chicago  to  be 
smelted.  From  Ralston  a  six-horse  stage-line  ran 
to  River  City,  thirty  miles;  beyond  that,  mountain- 
wagons,  or  in  their  season  sleighs,  took  you  up.  It 
meant  little  to  Anna  that  Mallory  was  ten  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea  and  on  the  summit  of  the  Con 
tinental  Divide ;  but  a  good  deal  that  the  snow-drifts 
lay  in  some  places  about  it  until  the  end  of  August, 

125 


THE  FORERUNNER 

and  that  about  the  first  of  September  snow  began 
to  fall  again. 

However,  Dan  had  been  told  by  people  living  there 
that  the  short  summers  were  beautiful,  and  he  could 
testify  that  the  air  even  now  was  the  best  and  most 
exhilarating  he  had  ever  breathed.  Manlove's  fam 
ily — wife  and  two  children — stayed  there  the  year 
through.  They  were  a  strong,  healthy  lot — Mrs. 
Manlove  a  plain,  pleasant  woman — and  had  been  very 
cordial  to  him.  He  thought  he  should  be  comforta 
ble  enough  at  the  "hotel,"  where  there  was  now  only 
one  boarder,  though  in  summer  they  had  more.  The 
living  was  rough  and  primitive,  of  course — mostly 
canned  things — since  they  had  to  bring  all  their  sup 
plies  sixty  miles  from  the  railroad.  His  life  would 
not  be  luxurious,  nor  would  Anna's — but  they  would 
make  up  for  it  afterward,  when  Dan  had  made  his 
"pile." 

There  remained  the  question  of  Anna's  living 
meantime.  She  understood  that  their  house  must 
be  given  up;  she  proposed  taking  a  smaller  house, 
in  order  to  keep  the  furniture  that  she  was  so  fond  of. 
Dan's  proposition  he  made  with  a  good  deal  of  hesi 
tation.  He  was  paying— or  owing— four  per  cent  a 
month  on  the  chattel  mortgage,  by  which  he  had 
raised  eight  hundred  dollars  on  the  furniture,  but  he 
preferred  not  to  tell  Anna  that,  or  that  they  must 
lose  it  anyway.  He  suggested  that  they  should  "let 
it  go"  (by  which  Anna  understood  sell  it),  because 
every  dollar  that  he  could  raise  was  needed  in  the 
new  business,  which  was  true  enough;  and  that  Anna 
should  board  with  her  parents  for  the  next  few 
months.  In  that  way  she  would  be  looked  after,  and 

126 


THE   FORERUNNER 

he  would  feel  easier  about  her,  and  it  would  also  help 
her  family — and  they  absolutely  needed  help. 

Anna  acquiesced  sombrely.  She  knew  that  some 
thing  must  be  done  for  her  parents,  that  she  could 
not  ask  Dan  to  give  them  money,  even  if  they  would 
have  taken  it;  she  agreed  that  this  was  probably  the 
only  practicable  scheme.  As  to  the  furniture,  Dan 
never  guessed  what  its  loss  cost  her.  It  was  not  only 
that  she  had  a  real  love  for  these  pretty  and  elegant 
things — but  they  were  the  last  tangible  evidence  of 
prosperity;  the  last,  that  is,  except  her  personal  be 
longings,  and  even  these  she  dumbly  expected  to 
sacrifice. 

The  day  after  Dan's  return,  when  they  had  finally 
settled  everything,  when  Anna  had  consented  to 
leave  the  house  with  all  its  contents,  and  smiled 
faintly  at  Dan's  promise  that  she  should  have  ten 
times  as  fine  a  place  before  long,  she  went  upstairs 
and  got  out  her  diamond  ornaments,  took  off  all  her 
rings  except  her  marriage-ring,  and  laid  them  out  on 
her  bureau  for  a  last  lingering  inspection. 

"You  will  have  to  sell  these,  too,  I  suppose,"  she 
said  tragically,  when  Dan  came  in. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment — the  money  certainly 
would  be  useful.  But  the  sight  of  Anna's  face  re 
flected  in  the  mirror — the  heavy,  downcast  eyelids 
with  their  suggestion  of  tears,  the  melancholy  mouth 
— moved  him  too  much. 

"No — keep  them,  you  poor  girl!"  he  cried  tenderly. 
"We'll  get  on  somehow.  You've  been  so  brave  and 
good — I  never  dared  expect  you  would  take  it  so  well." 

Anna  had  been  perfectly  calm  during  all  their  dis 
cussion  of  practical  details — but  this  vivid  allusion  to 

127 


THE   FORERUNNER 

her  sacrifice,  the  huskiness  of  Dan's  voice,  the  appeal 
in  his  face  as  he  bent  over  her,  were  too  much  for  her 
self-control.  She  burst  out  crying  wildly. 

"Oh,  take  me  with  you!"  she  sobbed.  "I  can't 
stand  it  to  stay  here.  I  couldn't  bear  it  at  home  be 
fore — and  how  can  I  now?  Oh,  take  me!" 

"Don't  you  think  I  would  if  I  could?  Don't  you 
know  it's  a  hundred  times  harder  for  me  than  for  you, 
to  leave  you?"  he  said  despairingly.  "But  supposing 
you  were  ill?  There's  no  doctor  nearer  than  River 
City.  And  even  if  you  were  well,  it  would  be  deadly 
hard  for  you.  You  can't  realize  what  it  would  mean. 
You  couldn't  get  a  piano  even.  No,  I  can't  take  you 
there,  I  don't  dare  do  it." 

His  will,  when  it  came  to  action,  was  so  much  the 
stronger  that  Anna  simply  gave  way.  She  could 
resist,  but  she  could  not  take  the  initiative.  So,  help 
less,  she  watched  the  last  frail  threads  by  which  she 
had  tried  to  bind  herself  to  the  things  she  cared  for, 
broken;  the  slight  web  of  her  life,  just  begun,  swept 
away  so  completely  that  one  could  scarcely  say  it 
had  been. 

Dan  left  her.  She  went  back  to  the  little  house  on 
Figueroa  Street;  to  the  tiny  bedroom  with  its  yellow 
wall-paper  and  worn  ingrain  rug;  to  the  atmosphere 
of  care  and  disunion  and  pinching  poverty,  that  had 
oppressed  her  girlhood.  Yet  there  was  a  difference. 
Her  marriage  had  set  her  apart  from  the  family  life — 
or  lack  of  it — and  it  troubled  her  much  less.  For 
one  thing,  Herwin  was  not  at  home.  He  had  lost 
his  position  on  the  Clarion,  and  now  he  was  a  travel 
ling  salesman  for  a  San  Francisco  publishing  firm. 
No  doubt  he  would  lose  that  chance,  too,  before  long, 

128 


THE  FORERUNNER 

but  for  the  present  they  heard  little  from  him.  Again, 
Anna  could  use  her  advantage  to  see  that  the  money 
she  gave  her  mother  was  applied  to  the  household 
expenses — and  she  did  so.  Herwin  got  none  of  it. 
And  the  last  faint  shadow  of  her  parents'  authority 
had  disappeared.  They  now  made  no  pretense  at 
control  or  even  at  knowing  her  affairs.  They  seemed 
indeed  glad  to  be  rid  of  responsibility,  eager  to  leave 
her  perfectly  free. 

And  they  were  very  kind  to  her — kinder  than  ever 
before,  or  else  she  was  quicker  to  feel  it.  Mrs.  Quar- 
termain,  on  the  ground  of  her  not  being  strong  yet, 
would  not  let  her  do  any  work  about  the  house,  ex 
cept  dusting  the  parlor.  And  in  a  more  important 
way  she  was  careful  to  spare  her:  there  were  very 
few  complaints  of  the  family  situation,  and  no  refer 
ences  at  all  to  Anna's  misfortunes.  She  was  grateful 
for  that  reticence.  Her  father  hi  many  shy  ways 
showed  his  thoughtfulness  for  her.  For  some  time 
she  took  her  breakfasts  in  bed,  and  he  would  bring 
in  the  tray;  almost  always  putting  a  flower  on  it — 
a  pansy  or  a  rose.  He  would  bring  her  the  newspaper, 
or  one  of  the  lighter  historical  works  from  his  small 
library.  He  expressly  relieved  her  from  the  neces 
sity  of  attendance  at  the  little  church,  where  he  still 
preached  a  carefully  prepared  sermon  every  Sunday 
to  a  handful  of  people.  He  made  an  attempt  to  talk 
cheerfully  at  the  meals  they  shared;  and  after  the 
dinner  at  night  he  would  go  into  the  parlor  and  open 
the  piano,  to  indicate  that  if  she  cared  to  sing  he  would 
be  glad  to  listen. 

The  state  of  the  piano  was  a  real  grief  to  him;  not 
only  its  age,  but  the  fact  that  he  could  not  afford  to 

129 


THE   FORERUNNER 

have  it  tuned  for  her.  But  Anna,  when  she  began 
to  sing  again,  touching  the  yellow  tinkling  keys  with 
the  utmost  lightness,  at  once  felt  that  here  was  a  rift 
in  the  clouds.  Her  voice  was  left  her,  if  nothing  else. 
She  had  the  piano  tuned,  and  began  to  practise  regu 
larly,  seeming  to  grow  stronger  and  to  bloom  again 
as  she  sang.  The  exercise  was  good  for  her  mentally 
as  well  as  physically.  She  brooded  less.  She  spent 
less  time  turning  over  the  relics  of  her  past  splendor — 
dresses  and  trinkets;  photographs  of  herself  in  her  va 
rious  ball-dresses,  or  of  her  parlors,  with  all  the  fur 
niture  disposed  to  the  best  advantage  and  the  per 
spective  managed  so  that  they  looked  really  palatial. 
On  her  bureau  she  had  a  small  photograph  of  Dan, 
and  some  specimens  of  copper  ore  he  had  sent  her — 
beautiful  bits  of  metal  showing  rainbow  colors.  She 
liked  to  have  these  always  before  her — the  rock 
which  held  riches,  according  to  Dan,  and  his  strong 
face,  which  seemed  as  surely  to  promise  success.  He 
wrote  almost  daily,  breezy  enthusiastic  letters,  full 
of  hope  and  of  affection — and  she  kept  all  these  let 
ters  and  read  them  over  and  over  again.  He  was 
perfectly  well,  he  wrote — the  mountain  air  was  a 
wonderful  tonic.  They  were  making  good  progress 
in  the  mines.  Manlove  was  a  good  fellow,  but  rather 
slow.  When  spring  came  they  could  move  faster. 
He  was  putting  in  some  machinery,  but  they  must 
have  more.  There  was  a  small  creek  running  within 
a  few  rods  of  their  main  mine — "  that  is,  of  course,  it 
isn't  running  now — but  when  things  thaw  out  I  have 
an  idea  it  can  be  dammed  and  turned  so  as  to  operate 
our  engines.  That  will  enable  us  to  increase  produc 
tion  to — ' '  and  so  on,  with  columns  of  figures,  which 

130 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Anna  carefully  scrutinized,  though  they  did  not  con 
vey  much  to  her.  Dan  had  not  much  else  to  write 
about,  and  the  daily  letter  meant  as  much  to  him  as 
it  did  to  her;  hence  the  statistics. 

She  wrote  more  briefly,  but  giving  the  details  of  her 
life.  She  was  well.  She  was  practising  two  hours  a 
day  and  thought  her  voice  better  than  before.  She 
was  very  comfortable;  the  weather  warm  and  every 
thing  in  blossom.  Mrs.  Goodwin  had  been  to  see 
her  several  times,  but  on  March  3d  had  started 
East;  she  was  going  to  travel  in  Italy  and  Spain  for 
a  year.  Mrs.  Grayson  had  called  once;  they  were 
going  back  to  Illinois.  Her  only  constant  visitor 
was  Elise  Andrews.  Elise  was  terribly  bitter  and 
moody.  She  talked  about  Charley  all  the  time. 
Dan  remembered  what  an  excitable,  hot-headed  girl 
she  was.  She  and  Charley  were  more  in  love  than 
ever — at  least  Elise  was — and  they  could  not  marry 
because  Charley  was  only  getting  ten  dollars  a  week. 
Elise  wondered  if  Dan  could  not  find  something  for 
Charley  to  do  out  there. 

Then  one  day  Anna  had  a  dramatic  incident  to  de 
scribe.  The  night  before  about  eleven  they  had  all 
been  wakened  by  the  violent  ringing  of  the  door-bell. 
Mr.  Quartermain  had  gone  to  the  door  in  a  dressing- 
gown;  then  he  came  back  and  held  a  whispered  con 
ference  with  his  wife.  Anna  could  hear  them  through 
the  wall,  and  could  hear  voices  in  the  parlor.  She 
was  alarmed  and  went  to  ask  her  father  through  the 
crack  in  the  door  what  was  the  matter.  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  whispered: 

"It's  Elise  and  young  Feltner.  They  want  me  to 
marry  them." 

131 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Anna  went  in  and  closed  the  door.  "I  tell  your 
father  he  shouldn't  do  it,"  Mrs.  Quartermain  said 
sternly,  sitting  up  in  bed.  'The  idea!  Waking  peo 
ple  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night!  They  oughtn't  to 
be  married,  anyway.  James,  you  must  just  send 
them  home." 

"Yes,  but  they  won't  go,"  he  said,  perplexed. 
"They'll  try  to  get  some  other  minister,  Elise  says, 
if  I  don't  do  it.  But  they  came  to  me  first  because 
— well,  I  know  them,  you  see " 

"Came  to  you  first,  at  this  hour  of  the  night — a 
pretty  arrangement!  Depend  on  it,  there's  some 
thing  wrong,"  cried  the  moralist  in  the  bed.  "I 
should  just  send  them  about  their  business,  if  I  were 
you." 

Anna  was  equally  bewildered.  "It  does  seem 
very  queer,"  she  said. 

But  the  minister,  more  in  sympathy  with  the  situa 
tion,  smiled  sadly. 

"I  think  perhaps  I  should  be  doing  a  greater  wrong 
if  I  sent  them  away,"  he  decided  finally,  "so,  if  you 
please,  my  dear,  I  will  dress.  And  I  shall  want  you 
two  as  witnesses.  I'll  just  go  and  tell  them  they'll 
have  to  wait  ten  minutes." 

"And  ask  Elise  to  come  to  my  room  a  minute,  will 
you?"  Anna  said. 

She  intended  to  remonstrate  with  Elise,  who, 
though  several  years  older  than  herself,  had  been 
rather  dominated  by  Anna's  cooler  head.  But  when 
the  girl  came  in  and  sat  down  on  her  bed  while  she 
dressed,  Anna  felt  suddenly  that  Elise  had  got  beyond 
that.  She  looked  older,  somehow.  She  was  very  pale, 
she  had  a  look  of  exaltation.  So  Anna  said  simply, 

132 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  am  coming  out  to  be  a  witness." 

"Yes,"  Elise  said. 

"It's  sudden,  isn't  it?    Do  your  parents  know?" 

"No,  but  I  am  of  age." 

"But  I  thought — Has  something  happened? 
Have  you  arranged — I  mean  how  are  you  going  to 
live?" 

"Together — that's  all  I  know  and  all  I  care  about," 
Elise  said,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"But — surely  you  have  some  plan " 

"Not  one.  It  isn't  more  than  half  an  hour  since — 
we  decided  it." 

"But  where  are  you  going,  afterward — to-night, 
I  mean?" 

"I  don't  know.  Wherever  he  takes  me.  What 
do  I  care?  We  can  live  somehow.  I  will  work,  too. 
I  would  sweep  the  streets,  if  it  helped  us  to  be  to 
gether." 

Anna  was  silent  after  that,  and  hurried  to  finish 
dressing.  They  went  out  into  the  little  parlor,  where 
young  Feltner  was  walking  about  restlessly.  He 
was  a  big,  handsome,  light-haired  man,  who  wore  his 
very  good  clothes  with  the  air  of  a  "swell,"  as  Elise 
had  been  used  fondly  to  call  him.  Anna  shook  hands 
with  him  solemnly;  then  Mr.  Quartermain  came  hi 
and  they  had  to  wait  ten  minutes  for  Mrs.  Quarter- 
main,  who  finally  appeared  frigid  in  a  black  dress 
and  curl-papers.  The  young  couple  stood  up  and 
the  ceremony  proceeded. 

Anna  ended  her  letter  thus: 

"And  they  stood  in  just  the  same  place  that  we 
did  to  be  married.  It  did  seem  so  strange  and  so 
forlorn  somehow — that  is,  all  except  Elise.  She  was 

133 


THE  FORERUNNER 

happy  enough.  She  looked  as  if  she  was  in  a  trance. 
They  didn't  even  have  a  ring  and  I  had  to  lend  them 
my  wedding-ring.  And  Elise  was  actually  going  off 
with  it  when  I  reminded  her.  Wasn't  it  all  queer!" 

A  few  days  later  she  wrote  that  Elise  and  Charley 
were  living  with  Elise's  parents.  Elise,  who  sewed 
beautifully,  was  embroidering  things  to  sell,  and  was 
going  to  do  dressmaking  for  anybody  who  would 
have  her.  And  she,  Anna,  would  like  to  have  Elise 
make  some  cheap  little  dresses  for  her,  as  Elise 
needed  some  money  terribly  and  she  needed  some 
thin  clothes.  It  was  getting  warm. 

Dan  wrote  back  that  of  course  she  must  have  what 
dresses  she  needed,  but  that  he  would  be  rather  short 
of  money  for  a  few  months.  He  was  putting  every 
thing  into  the  mine.  It  would  begin  to  pay  them 
before  long.  What  they  needed  most  in  that  region 
was  a  smelter  at  Grandview.  That  would  make  their 
low-grade  ore  profitable  and  that  meant  millions  to 
them.  At  present  the  ore  had  to  be  sent  to  Denver, 
and  it  didn't  pay  to  haul  the  low-grade  that  far.  In 
the  spring  someone  would  have  to  go  to  New  York 
about  the  business,  and  that  person  would  undoubt 
edly  be  himself.  Manlove  agreed  that  he,  Dan,  was 
the  man  to  put  through  the  thing.  It  was  Dan's 
project.  Manlove  would  never  have  thought  it  pos 
sible.  Of  course  when  he  went  to  New  York  Anna 
would  go  with  him.  But  meantime  they  would  have 
to  be  careful  of  money. 

That  letter  spurred  Anna  to  an  action  that  she  had 
had  vaguely  in  mind  for  some  time.  She  was  bent 
on  having  the  summer  clothes  and  also  she  wanted 
to  help  Elise — and  she  wanted  to  use  her  voice  again. 

134 


THE  FORERUNNER 

It  had  occurred  to  her  to  try  for  her  old  position  at 
the  synagogue.  It  was  very  well  paid,  and  she  re 
membered  hearing  Dan  say  that  whoever  lost  by  the 
boom,  the  Jews  had  got  rich  on  it.  And  they  had 
been  sorry  to  lose  her  from  the  choir.  In  her  place 
they  had  engaged  a  young  woman,  known  to  Anna, 
who  had  a  voice  fairly  well  trained  but  not  at  all  re 
markable.  She  and  Anna  had  been  fellow-pupils  of 
the  fashionable  singing-teacher  of  the  city  for  the 
year  that  Anna's  salary  had  enabled  her  to  take  ex 
pensive  lessons;  and  Anna  had  been  the  star  pupil, 
always  put  forward  at  recitals,  and  urged  by  Madame 
Blauvelt  to  study  for  a  public  career.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  Miss  Hiller;  but  curiosity  urged  her  to  go 
and  hear  her.  One  Saturday  morning  therefore  she 
went  to  the  synagogue,  and  took  a  seat  quietly  at 
the  back,  as  Daniel  Devin  once  had  done. 

The  thought  of  seeing  De  Ronde  had  not  been  con 
sciously  in  her  mind;  yet  she  knew  when  he  came  in, 
rather  late,  in  time  to  look  up  and  bow  as  he  passed 
her.  Nor  did  she  miss  the  flash  of  surprise  and  pleas 
ure  in  his  face.  And,  though  she  looked  straight  past 
him,  after  he  had  followed  his  parents  and  sisters  up 
the  aisle  and  taken  his  seat,  she  knew  when  he  turned 
and  looked  at  her. 

Miss  Killer's  performance  was  satisfactory — that 
is,  obviously  enough  inferior  to  Anna's  own.  Anna 
went  out  before  the  sermon  began,  and  walked  slowly 
home.  The  day  was  bright,  though  it  had  rained 
heavily  the  day  and  night  before,  and  the  gutters 
along  the  main  streets  were  rushing  torrents.  She 
enjoyed  the  walk,  the  feeling  of  renewed  vigor,  the 
prospect  of  a  break  in  her  monotonous  days. 

135 


THE  FORERUNNER 

She  cared  infinitely  more  to  sing  in  public  than  in 
private,  and  her  mind  now  was  busy  with  reasons 
for  doing  it,  which  seemed  to  her  so  strong  that  not 
even  Dan  could  object  to  them.  Since  they  were 
poor,  by  his  own  misjudgment,  he  could  not  fairly 
oppose  her  earning  some  money.  If  Charley  Felt- 
ner's  wife  could  do  dressmaking,  surely  she  could  use 
her  own  infinitely  superior  gift.  So  thoroughly  was 
she  convinced  herself,  that  she  intended  to  get  the 
position  first,  if  possible,  and  then  to  tell  Dan  about 
it.  But  how  to  get  it?  It  would  be  rather  awkward, 
since  she  knew  Miss  Hiller,  to  apply  openly  for  it. 
Her  thought  just  glanced  at  De  Ronde — but  certainly 
she  could  not  say  anything  to  him  about  it.  In  some 
way,  however,  she  must  let  the  committee  know  that 
she  was  available,  if  there  should  be  a  vacancy. 

Thus  occupied,  she  was  a  long  time  in  getting  home, 
particularly  as  she  had  to  negotiate  carefully  each 
street-crossing.  And  she  had  hardly  got  into  her 
bedroom  and  taken  off  her  muddy  boots,  before  her 
mother  appeared  and  announced  that  there  was  a 
young  man  in  the  parlor  to  see  her — "boyish-looking 
and  dark — he  didn't  give  his  name." 

Anna  knew  who  it  must  be,  and  turned  hot  and 
cold  at  the  idea  that  De  Ronde  perhaps  thought  she 
had  gone  to  the  synagogue  to  see  him.  But  in  a 
moment  she  went  into  the  parlor,  rustling  with  con 
scious  dignity  in  her  brown  silk  dress,  and  greeted 
him.  He  was  wiping  his  bro\v  with  his  faintly- 
scented  handkerchief;  he  looked  exceedingly  warm. 

"I  hurried  after  you,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  out/' 
he  explained  quickly.  "I  hope  you'll  forgive  me 
for  coming  without  being  asked,  but  I've  wanted  to 

136 


THE  FORERUNNER 

do  it  for  a  long  time.  "I  wanted  to.  know  how  you 
are;  and — to  see  you." 

"I'm  very  well — won't  you  sit  down?"  Then 
Anna  plunged  into  her  explanation. 

"I  went  this  morning  to  hear  Miss  Hiller.  I  knew 
she  had  taken  my  place,  and  I  thought  I  should  like 
— to  hear  her."  She  ended  lamely,  flushing  as  she 
realized  that  she  could  not  tell  him  her  reason  for 
going.  But  he  had  guessed  it. 

"Could  you  come  back?"  he  asked  eagerly,  leaning 
forward  in  his  chair  near  her.  "I  hope  so  much  that 
you  can.  Everybody  felt  your  going  as  a  great  loss. 
We  don't  like  Miss  Hiller,  and  I  know  she  is  only  on 
probation  and  they  don't  mean  to  engage  her  per 
manently." 

How  easy  it  was  after  all! 

"If  that  is  so,  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't,"  Anna 
said  softly,  "though  of  course  I  wouldn't  do  anything 
to  injure  Miss  Hiller." 

"Then  may  I  arrange  it?  I  mean,  just  a  hint  is 
all  that's  necessary.  The  committee  ought  to  know 
that  it's  possible." 

Anna  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  can't  ask  you  to  dp 
anything  about  it " 

"But  you  don't  ask  me.     I  insist  on  doing  it." 

"Perhaps  it's  hardly  worth  while  after  all,"  she 
hesitated,  "since  I'm  to  be  here  so  short  a  time.  I 
shall  go  away  in  six  weeks  to  join  Mr.  Devin.  I 
thought  it  would  be  something  to  occupy  me  a 
little — I  have  so  much  time  on  my  hands — but 
perhaps " 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  that — about  your  going 
away — very,  very  sorry,"  said  De  Ronde  in  a  low 

137 


THE  FORERUNNER 

voice,  and  he  looked  it.  "But — even  a  few  weeks 
is  something,  for  us,  for — me.  You  won't  refuse, 
surely." 

She  couldn't  refuse  very  well;  and  De  Ronde  did  ar 
range  it,  in  the  course  of  the  next  two  weeks.  Three 
further  calls,  of  about  an  hour  each,  seemed  to  him 
necessary  in  order  to  keep  Anna  posted  on  the  prog 
ress  of  the  affair;  at  least  some  introductory  sen 
tences  each  time  gave  this  color  to  his  visits,  and  it 
was  thus  that  Anna  accounted  for  them  to  her  mother. 

Anna  herself  was  faintly  uneasy.  In  her  environ 
ment  it  was  hardly  within  the  limits  of  propriety  for 
a  young  married  woman,  especially  if  her  husband 
were  absent,  to  receive  the  regular  visits  of  a  man. 
And  more,  she  knew  that  De  Ronde  admired  her,  had 
a  feeling  for  her  which  was  rapidly  growing  upon  him. 
He  had  behaved  with  the  utmost  punctiliousness,  so 
far,  but  now  and  then  a  word,  a  look,  interrupting 
the  current  of  their  gossipy  chat,  gave  her  alarm. 
She  liked  him,  she  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  visits,  and 
rejoiced  that  her  mother  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  come  into  the  parlor  when  he  was  there,  except 
once  when  he  had  been  introduced  to  her. 

But  there  was  too  much  pleasure  in  it,  Anna  felt. 
It  was,  she  could  not  but  feel,  at  least  questionable 
whether  she  should  allow  him  to  come.  And  Anna 
could  not  bear  to  be  questionable.  She  would  prefer 
to  be  bored. 

But  she  did  not  know  how  to  convey  her  meaning 
to  De  Ronde.  After  she  had  resumed  her  place  in 
the  choir  he  continued  to  come  about  once  a  week. 
Then  one  week  he  came  twice.  And  both  times,  by 
the  merest  chance,  Elise  Feltner  came  in^-to  try  on 

138 


THE  FORERUNNER 

a  dress  for  Anna — while  he  was  there,  and  after  stay 
ing  a  few  moments  went  away  without  accomplishing 
her  errand.  Elise's  silence  about  him,  when  she  and 
Anna  met,  was  significant;  it  was  heavy  as  lead. 
And  it  provoked  in  Anna  a  venomous  outlash  of 
thought  that  barely  stopped  short  of  speech.  Elise 
Andrews!  Elise  to  be  setting  up  as  a  judge  and  dar 
ing  to  judge  her!  She  had  her  own  idea  about 
Elise  and  about  that  midnight  marriage.  That  is, 
it  was  really  Dan's  idea,  conveyed  by  a  careless  jocu 
lar  comment  in  one  of  his  letters.  But  Anna  could 
not  be  jocular  about  such  things.  With  that  idea 
in  her  mind  she  could  never  be  really  friendly  again 
with  Elise.  And  yet  she  had  been  kind  to  her;  given 
her  that  work  to  do.  And  now  Elise ! 

No,  it  was  not  to  be  borne.  There  should  be  no 
"talk."  She  would  dismiss  him.  But  it  wasn't 
easy.  She  was  under  a  sort  of  obligation  to  him. 
Several  times  she  began  to  frame  the  sentence,  but 
the  words  wouldn't  come.  The  days  and  weeks  went 
on.  She  began  to  hope  that  Dan  would  send  for  her 
before  it  became  necessary  to  do  it.  But  it  was  the 
middle  of  April  now,  and  still  he  was  indefinite. 

Slowly,  and  all  the  more  surely  because  it  grew  in 
silence  and  darkness,  resentment  against  Dan  was 
taking  form  in  the  mind  of  his  wife.  He  had  left  her 
in  a  very  uncomfortable  position;  she  felt  its  hard 
ship  the  more  keenly  since  she  was  obliged  to  give  up 
its  only  alleviation.  Dan  had  left  her  without  pro 
tection  and  exposed  her  to  gossip.  And  in  some  way 
she  resented  the  ease  with  which  he  had  accepted  her 
singing  again  in  the  synagogue.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
she  had  stated  her  wish  to  do  it  so  strongly,  not  only 

139 


THE  FORERUNNER 

for  the  money  but  for  the  occupation  and  interest  it 
would  give  her  idle  days,  that  Dan  could  not  refuse 
his  consent;  and  it  was  not  his  way  to  yield  grudg 
ingly.  But  Anna  remembered  the  strength  with 
which,  before  they  married,  he  had  objected  to  her 
singing  in  public;  and  she  thought  bitterly  that  he 
had  grown  careless  of  her. 

He  was  still  in  many  ways  a  puzzle  to  her ;  a  puzzle 
that  grew  less  easy  to  solve,  the  more  she  brooded  on 
it.  They  had  been  married  but  six  months  and  for 
two  of  these  they  had  been  separated.  The  apparent 
ease  with  which  he  had  adjusted  himself  to  living 
without  her,  she  felt  as  an  injury.  He  was  full  of 
affection  for  her  still — or  his  letters  were — but  they 
were  not  the  letters  of  an  unhappy  man.  He  had 
left  the  place  in  which  he  had  lived  eight  years  with 
out  a  regret  for  it,  so  far  as  she  could  see.  He  had 
broken  whatever  ties  of  friendship  he  had,  with  per 
fect  carelessness.  She  who  needed,  to  be  happy  or 
at  ease,  a  network  of  other  lives  connected  with  her 
own,  a  frame  of  material  interests  surrounding  her, 
could  not  comprehend  the  solitary  spirit  who  appar 
ently  needed  nothing  except  his  work  and  his  dreams 
of  the  future — dreams  in  which,  not  herself,  but  work 
again,  accomplishment,  success,  played,  she  thought, 
the  main  part. 

But,  though  she  might  be  ill-used,  Anna  was  re 
solved  to  be  blameless.  She  could  not  write  freely 
about  De  Ronde  to  Dan,  and  she  disliked  to  feel  that 
she  was  concealing  anything  from  him — except,  in 
deed,  her  thoughts  of  him. 

Finally  an  event  of  happy  augury  to  her  family 
helped  her  to  the  step  she  felt  obliged  to  take.  Mr. 

140 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Quartermain  received  a  call  from  a  prosperous  Uni 
tarian  church  in  Oakland,  with  the  offer  of  a  liberal 
salary.  A  book  of  his  sermons  which  had  been  pub 
lished  by  subscription  a  year  ago  before  and  had,  he 
thought,  been  as  seed  cast  upon  the  rock,  had  now 
borne  this  surprising  crop.  Two  or  three  influential 
members  of  the  congregation  had  been  first  inter 
ested;  lately  one  of  them  had  travelled  down  to  hear 
Mr.  Quartermain  preach,  and  upon  his  favorable  re 
port  the  church  had  acted. 

There  was  agitation  and  thanksgiving  in  the  house 
hold  soon  to  be  broken  up.  By  the  sale  of  their  house 
hold  effects  and  by  the  tardy  coming  in  of  some  ar 
rears  of  salary,  Mr.  Quartermain  got  enough  money 
to  tide  them  over  the  move.  Anna  immediately 
wrote  the  news  to  Dan,  saying  that  if  her  own  de 
parture  was  to  be  postponed  more  than  a  fortnight 
she  would  go  to  a  small  quiet  family  hotel  not  far 
from  her  present  home,  until  he  should  send  for  her. 
And  when  De  Ronde  came  the  next  evening,  Anna 
told  him  of  the  prospective  change,  saying  with  more 
show  of  calmness  than  she  felt:  "Of  course  that 
leaves  me  quite  alone,  and  I  shall  have  to  be  even 
more  quiet  than  I  am  here.  I  suppose  I  shall  live  in 
one  room  and  see  nobody." 

He  started  to  protest,  then  her  meaning  struck 
him.  He  reddened,  turned  pale,  and  said:  "You 
mean  I  am  not  to  come  any  more." 

"I  am  sorry,"  was  all  she  could  say.  She  dreaded 
those  signs  of  emotion  he  was  exhibiting — the  change 
of  color,  the  bitten  lip.  While  she  would  not  have 
liked  it  if  he  had  taken  his  dismissal  quite  calmly, 
Anna  much  preferred  that  no  one  should  have  strong 

141 


THE   FORERUNNER 

emotions,  at  least  in  her  presence.  She  wondered  if 
he  were  going  to  choke  up  and  shed  tears,  as  Dan 
sometimes  did,  and  hoped  not. 

He  got  up  abruptly,  walked  to  the  window  and 
stood  there  with  his  back  to  her  till  sheer  nervousness 
forced  her  to  speak. 

"Please  don't  act  that  way — it  is  absurd.  We 
hardly  know  one  another,''  she  argued.  "You  make 

it  harder  for  me "  Much  to  her  surprise  a  sob, 

not  his  but  hers,  interrupted  her. 

He  turned  round,  came  swiftly  back,  dropped  on 
the  sofa  beside  her,  seized  her  hands.  "Do  you  mean 
it?  Do  you  really  mean  it?  Don't  you  care  then 
the  least  bit  for  me?" 

Anna  gazed  at  him  stonily.  "No/'  she  said  with 
an  effort. 

"You  do!  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  it?  You're 
afraid  of  gossip,  that's  all.  You  send  me  away 
rather  than  have  a  parcel  of  old  women  say— what 
could  they  say,  after  all?  What  have  I  done?  Don't 
be  a  fool!  Don't — send  me  away." 

"Yes,  I  must.  Don't  speak  to  me  in  that  way, 
either." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I — it's  pretty  sudden. 
A  man  doesn't  like  to  be  thrown  overboard  in  that 
cool  fashion.  I  thought  you  liked  me  a  little — in  a 
friendly  way." 

"I  did." 

"But  not  enough  to  outweigh  a  little  gossip — or  the 
chance  of  it?  A  friend  doesn't  mean  very  much  to 
you  then." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Anna,  still  offended.  "I 
did  like  you,  but  my  husband  didn't,  I  couldn't 

142 


THE   FORERUNNER 

have  you  come  to  see  me  while  he  was  here,  and  I 
can't  when  he  is  gone.  I  couldn't  even  if  you 
hadn't " 

He  interrupted  sullenly.  "What  has  your  hus 
band  against  me?  I've  scarcely  spoken  to  him." 

"I  don't  know,  but  there  is  something." 

"And  are  you  bound  by  that?  I  thought  you  had 
separated." 

Anna  rose  precipitately. 

"It  isn't  true!  Why  should  you  think  that?  How 
can  you  say  such  a  thing!"  Her  face  flushed  deeply. 
She  bit  her  lip,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Well,  when  a  woman  as  young  and  pretty  as  you 
are,  and  married  only  a  few  months,  goes  back  to  her 
parents " 

Again  he  repented  the  brutality  of  his  speech  and 
begged  her  forgiveness.  <jfa 

"But,  you  see,  that's  what  people  think.  And  I 
suppose  I  took  it  for  granted  all  the  more  easily  be 
cause  I — hoped  it." 

He  moved  a  step  toward  her  and  Anna  retreated, 
lifting  her  head  proudly. 

"I  can't  help  what  people  think.  They  have  no 
right  to  say  anything  against  me»" 

"No,  by  Jove,  that's  true!  They  haven't.  You've 
got  a  cool,  level  head  and  can  take  care  of  yourself, 
and  I  admire  you  for  it.  I'm  sorry  for  the  way  things 
have  turned  out.  I  wish  we  could  be  friends — at  least. 
Won't  you  give  me  your  hand  and  say  good-bye?" 

Anna  put  her  hands  behind  her  backhand  looked 
him  in  the  eyes  resentfully. 

"I  won't  shake  hands  with  you.  I  don't  think 
you  have  behaved  very  well.  You  have  hurt  my 

143 


THE  FORERUNNER 

feelings,  and — and — you  had  no  right  to  say  what  you 
did." 

De  Ronde  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  might  be  two  opinions  about  that.  You— 
hurt  my  feelings  too,  remember." 

"Well,  that  was  different.    I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  could,  too.  You  needn't  have  been 
as  cold  as  a  stone  about  it.  You — it  wouldn't  have 
hurt  you  to  be  a  little  kinder  to  me.  You're  a  woman 
— why  should  you  act  like  a  school-girl?  Why  should 
you  shut  yourself  up  just  because  your  husband 
chooses  to  leave  you  alone?  You  can  be  sure  he 
amuses  himself;  why  shouldn't  you?  He'll  like  you 
all  the  better  if  you  don't  cry  your  eyes  out  for  him. 
Come,  I'm  going  now,  perhaps  I  shan't  see  you  again. 
.  .  .  And  I'm  sorry,  yes,  by  Jove  I  am,  in  spite  of 
the  way  you've  treated  me.  You're  the  prettiest 
woman  in  this  state,  Anna  ...  by  Jove,  I'm 
in  love  with  you!  It  hurts  like  sin  to  go  away  and 
leave  you.  Won't  you  let  me  stay  .  .  ." 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  putting  out  her  hands  to  keep 
him  off.  "Go  away." 

He  seized  her  hands.  "Then  kiss  me  good-bye! 
You  owe  me  that  much." 

Anna  broke  from  him  by  main  force,  and  fled  into 
her  own  room  to  weep  with  rage.  She  was  sure  that 
De  Ronde's  last  words  had  been  overheard  by  her 
mother,  who  sat  in  the  dining-room  with  her  mend 
ing  and  newspaper.  What  would  be  thought  of  her? 
Her  mother,  of  course,  would  be  too  scandalized  to 
speak  of  it,  and  how  could  she  explain?  Was  ever  a 
blameless  person  placed  in  so  humiliating  a  position 
before? 

144 


THE   FORERUNNER 

And  the  responsibility  for  her  humiliation  in  the 
end  rested  upon  Dan.  He  had  left  her  alone  and  ex 
posed  her  to  gossip  and  insult.  Her  pride  was  deeply 
wounded.  De  Ronde  had  said  that  people  talked 
about  her.  And  if  it  had  not  been  so,  if  she  had  not 
been  unprotected,  he  would  never  have  dared.  .  .  . 

That  night  she  wrote  a  letter  resigning  her  place  in 
the  synagogue  choir,  and  one  to  Dan  telling  him  sim 
ply  that  she  had  done  so.  For  several  weeks  now  she 
had  paid  all  her  own  expenses  out  of  her  salary;  and 
Dan  had  not  sent  her  any  remittance  for  a  month. 
But  now  through  his  fault  it  was  out  of  her  power  to 
earn  any  more  in  that  way;  and  Anna  rather  hoped 
the  result  would  inconvenience  him. 


145 


X. 

MALLORY,  April  20. 
"Mr  DEAR  ANNA: 

"We  shall  build  the  smelter.  I  am  organizing  a 
company  under  the  laws  of  this  state,  to  be  called 
the  Mallory  Smelter,  Power,  and  Light  Company. 
The  company  will  own  over  sixty  acres  of  patented 
land,  valuable  water-rights,  a  dam  and  a  pipe  line 
one  and  three-fourths  of  a  mile  long,  from  site  of  dam 
to  smelter  when  completed.  It  will  have  an  electric 
light  plant  for  its  own  use,  operated  entirely  by  water 
power;  seventeen  and  one- third  cubic  feet  of  water 
per  second  to  be  legally  appropriated  from  the  north 
and  south  forks  of  the  Grandview  River,  at  the 
junction  of  which  the  smelter  will  be  situated. 

"The  others  in  the  company  are  all  business  men 
interested  in  developing  this  section.  Mr.  E.  T. 
Grand  has  been  a  mining  man  here  for  ten  years.  He 
is  president  of  the  Grand  Copper  Mining  Company, 
which  owns  two  of  the  richest  mines  about  here,  and 
president  of  the  Grandview  Town  Company.  I  think 
we  shall  make  him  president  of  our  company.  The 
vice-president  will  be  Mr.  Powers,  Secretary  of  State, 
of  Wyoming ;  treasurer,  Mr.  Parker,  president  of  the 
Parker  Electric  Light  Company;  assistant  secretary, 
Mr.  Green  of  the  Green  Water  Works  Company.  I 
am  to  be  the  secretary,  and  shall  have  7,500  shares  of 
stock,  par  value  $10  per  share. 

146 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"The  Mallory  Smelter  Company  will  own  sixty  per 
cent  of  the  capital  stock  of  the  Parker  Electric  Com 
pany,  which  has  valuable  franchises  in  Grandview 
and  intends  to  supply  light  and  power  to  the  town 
and  to  the  mines  throughout  the  district.  Also  we 
shall  own  sixty  per  cent  of  the  stock  of  the  Green 
Water  Works  Company,  which  has  exclusive  fran 
chises  for  supplying  Grandview  with  water.  We 
estimate  that  the  profits  of  our  stockholders  will  be 
at  least  thirty  per  cent  per  annum  on  the  value  of 
the  capital  stock,  including  dividends  from  Electric 
Light  and  Water  Works  Companies. 

"We  shall  capitalize  the  company  at  $700,000,  of 
which  $300,000  is  owned  by  officers  of  company,  and 
the  rest  will  be  sold. 

"Our  smelter  will  have  a  capacity  of  150  tons  of  ore 
a  day;  the  mines  of  this  rich  district  now  produce 
over  350  tons  a  day.  Our  location  is  in  the  centre 
of  the  district,  with  a  down-hill  pull  from  the  mines. 
It  is  a  great  proposition. 

"I  am  rushed  every  minute,  but  well.  Have  been 
in  Cheyenne  for  two  or  three  days  on  business  about 
the  company.  We  expect  to  sell  a  good  deal  of  our 
stock  in  the  East.  I  may  telegraph  you  any  day  to 
meet  me.  Take  care  of  yourself,  dear.  It  won't  be 
long  now.  Yours  always.  D.  D." 


MALLORY,  May  3rd. 
"DEAR  ANNA: 

"We  are  having  beautiful  weather — snow  melting 
a  little  even  up  here,  and  down  at  River  City  things 
look  springlike.  This  is  a  beautiful  country — you 

147 


THE  FORERUNNER 

will  enjoy  seeing  it.  We  have  finished  the  organiza 
tion  of  the  Mallory  Smelter,  Power  and  Light  Com 
pany,  and  I  am  Secretary.  Shall  have  a  salary  of 
$4,000  a  year  when  we  get  started,  but  that  doesn't 
count  much.  We  have  a  good  deal  of  money  paid 
in — about  half  enough  to  build  the  smelter.  Our 
engineer,  John  Murray,  is  one  of  the  best-known  me 
chanical,  hydraulic  and  civil  engineers  in  the  country. 
We  shall  begin  work  on  the  ground  shortly;  and  shall 
have  when  completed  a  perfectly  equipped  plant  of 
the  most  modern  and  expensive  machinery.  The  ore 
will  net  us,  less  cost  of  treatment,  $5.00  per  ton,  and 
at  150  tons  a  day,  returns  from  that  alone  will  be 
nearly  $300,000  a  year. 

"We  shall  use  charcoal  for  fuel.  Forests  of  spruce 
and  pine  all  about  us  furnish  the  charcoal  at  seven 
cents  a  bushel.  Iron  and  lime  for  fluxing  are  abun 
dant  in  this  region,  and  our  iron  is  of  a  superior  qual 
ity  and  largely  used  in  Denver  and  Omaha. 

"You  will  enjoy  the  drives  in  summer  about  here. 
There  are  a  good  many  points  of  interest  and  we  can 
live  comfortably  at  River  City  for  a  time.  I  shall  not 
be  at  the  mines  after  this  spring,  but  shall  give  most 
of  my  time  to  the  Smelter  Company. 

"I  hope  now  to  get  away  in  two  or  three  weeks.  I 
am  busy  every  minute,  but  I  have  time  to  miss  you. 
I  think  of  you  constantly,  and  if  I  make  a  success 
here  it  will  be  for  you. — DAN." 

MALLORY,  May  14. 
"MY  DEAR  ANNA: 

"I  am  glad  you  are  comfortable  in  your  new  quar 
ters  and  thankful  that  you  keep  well.  I  shall  see 

148 


THE  FORERUNNER 

you,  if  all  goes  well,  in  a  fortnight  or  so  now.  We 
have  done  about,  all  we  can  here  for  the  present 
— at  least  I  have — and  feel  that  the  sooner  I  can  put 
the  stock  in  the  eastern  market,  the  better  for  all  of 
us;  and  the  others  agree  with  me.  I  have  some  let 
ters  of  introduction  to  men  in  New  York  and  Boston, 
and  they  seem  to  think  here  that  I  am  the  best  per 
son  to  get  what  we  want.  I  came  up  in  the  stage 
from  Ralston  to  River  City  yesterday  with  Mr.  Grand, 
our  president,  and  on  the  way  pointed  out  to  him 
that  we  ought  to  build  a  railroad  along  the  route  that 
the  stage  now  takes— about  thirty  miles.  He  was 
struck  with  the  idea  and  said,  'Well,  you  certainly 
are  a  holy  hustler  before  the  Lord!'  He'd  been  in 
this  place  fifteen  years,  and  the  notion  never  oc 
curred  to  him  before! 

'The  valley  is  really  lovely  now.  It  is  a  farming 
country — everything  green  and  the  fields  covered 
with  beautiful  wild-flowers.  There  will  be  a  fine  town 
at  River  City  before  many  years — climate  perfect, 
and  a  good  many  people  here  now.  I  hope  you  will 
be  with  me  here  before  the  end  of  the  summer.  I 
expect  to  telegraph  you  to  meet  me  at  Cheyenne  in 
a  couple  of  weeks  at  furthest. 

"I  am  more  certain  than  ever  that  I  shall  do  what 
I  want  in  New  York  or  Boston.  Copper  is  rising 
steadily  in  the  market.  It  is  just  dawning  on  the 
country  that  copper  is  the  base  of  the  modern  in 
dustrial  development  of  electrical  heat  and  power, 
and  that  all  we  can  produce  won't  supply  the  demand 
that  is  bound  to  come  with  a  few  years. 

"The  manufacturers  and  the  mining  world  are 
slowly  getting  on  to  the  fact  that  the  rise  in  the  price 

149 


THE  FORERUNNER 

of  copper  is  not  temporary;  but  that,  as  the  sources 
are  limited  and  the  demand  inevitable,  the  price  will 
go  on  rising  steadily.  Of  course  this  is  our  chance 
and  it  is  a  big  one.  And  this  business  will  not  only 
make  us  rich,  but  it  will  add  to  the  permanent  wealth 
and  power  of  the  country. 

"The  history  of  the  copper  industry  is  as  interesting 
as  a  novel.  It  takes  you  out  into  the  world,  where  as 
a  matter  of  fact  the  United  States  has  been  fighting 
England  again  over  it !  We  are  forcing  her  manufact 
urers  to  buy  from  us  now,  as  the  French  and  Germans 
have  been  doing,  since  we  got  control  of  the  world's 
markets.  But  those  bull-headed  Britishers  held  out 
— wouldn't  buy  from  us  because  they  thought  we  had 
simply  engineered  a  gigantic  'corner'  in  copper.  A 
Frenchman  tried  to  do  that  some  years  ago  and  went 
broke;  and  the  Britishers  have  been  waiting  for  us 
to  collapse,  too.  It  does  me  good;  I  would  rather 
lick  them  than  anybody  on  earth.  This  is  a  great 
age  and  a  great  country.  And  I  think  we're  going 
to  make  our  little  corner  of  it  here  count  for  some 
thing.  The  company  we  have  organized  will  do  a  lot, 
but  I'm  more  and  more  convinced  that  we've  got  to 
have  the  railroad. 

"I'm  not  saying  much  about  that  here,  for  I  rather 
think  I'll  manage  to  build  it  myself.  That's  what  I 
want  to  go  East  for  quite  as  much  as  the  other.  I'm 
going  to  have  a  survey  made  on  the  quiet,  and  get 
some  options,  and  later  I  shall  see  the  Union  Pacific 
people. 

"We  shall  make  a  success  here  anyhow,  but  with 
the  railroad  we  would  boom. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  about  Herwin.  If  he  would 
150 


THE   FORERUNNER 

brace  up  I  might  be  able  to  get  him  a  book-keeper's 
place  out  here.  We  shall  need  more  men  shortly. 
I  am  working  like  a  beaver  to  get  away — I  think 
now  by  June  1st  at  latest  I  can  arrange  it.  There 
has  been  a  great  deal  of  business  to  settle  first  in  order 
to  put  things  in  good  shape.  Everything  going  on 
as  well  as  possible. 

"Keep  well  and  cheerful,  my  dearest.  Yours  al 
ways— D.  D." 

"RALSTON,  June  15. 

"Leaving  for  New  York.  Meet  me  Cheyenne  via 
Union  Pacific  leaving  there  Thursday.  Am  tele 
graphing  money.  Wire  me  Ralston  when  you  start. 

DANIEL  DEVIN." 


151 


PART   II 


T  ATE  September  in  New  York.  The  gasping  city 
*^  was  submerged  in  a  hot  wave  which  had  lasted 
five  days  without  ebbing  perceptibly  at  night — the 
worst  weather  of  an  uncommonly  bad  summer.  It 
was  smothered  in  a  blanket  of  vapor,  thin  enough  to 
let  the  sun  through,  thick  enough  to  make  breathing  a 
conscious  effort.  In  this  hot  humidity  the  outlines 
of  buildings  and  of  trees  were  hazy;  the  asphalt  half 
melting  was  spongy  to  the  foot,  readily  taking  an 
imprint.  The  air  was  full  of  singed  and  dusty  smells. 
The  streets  through  which  sprinkling-carts  had  just 
passed  or  which  some  cloud,  faint  and  hardly  dis 
tinguishable  in  the  tarnished  sky,  had  moistened  with 
a  brief  tepid  shower,  were  unrefreshed;  and  this 
moisture  absorbed  again  seemed  only  to  make  the 
atmosphere  more  perceptible  and  unbearable. 

Man,  the  sufferer  by  these  conditions,  also  presented 
his  least  attractive  aspect.  No  matter  how  bloom 
ing  or  spruce  he  might  be  normally,  he  could  not  but 
wither  and  wilt  in  the  hot  blasts  reflected  from  stone, 
brick,  concrete  and  metal.  When  possible  he  fled  to 
some  one  of  the  oases  in  this  desert,  where  a  few  trees, 
a  little  turf,  a  fountain  or  two,  tried  to  create  an  il 
lusion  of  freshness. 

Central  Park  at  half-past  five  in  the  afternoon 
was  crowded.  Every  bench  was  occupied,  the 

155 


THE  FORERUNNER 

broader  walks  showed  an  incessant  stream  of  people 
and  baby-carriages.  The  ponds  were  surrounded, 
the  boats  and  carrousel  busy,  and  the  drive-ways  full 
of  hired  carriages.  But  with  all  this  motion,  there 
was  no  air  of  briskness;  all  was  languid  and  oppressed, 
with  perhaps  the  sole  exception  of  the  musical  wooden 
horses  of  the  carrousel.  The  crowd,  along  with  this 
limpness,  exhibited  an  extreme  informality  in  dress 
and  attitude.  Men  carried  their  hats  and  coats  and 
sometimes  their  collars,  shirt-sleeves  being  the  pre 
vailing  note  of  their  attire.  Women  wore  the  thin 
nest  cotton  waists  or  dresses,  sometimes  cut  down  a 
little  at  the  throat  or  with  elbow-sleeves.  If  the 
sleeves  were  long  they  were  rolled  back  to  the  elbow, 
showing  round  arms  or  scrawny.  Many  of  the  girls 
were  bare-headed,  and  with  some  of  them  youth  and 
beauty,  and  the  advantage  of  light,  easy  dress,  went 
far  to  overcome  the  blighting  influence  of  the  weather. 
The  innumerable  babies,  wearing  as  little  as  possible, 
lying  pale  and  dumb  or  fretfully  wailing,  showed  its 
worst  effects. 

On  a  bench  facing  the  main  drive-way,  near  the 
Fifth  Avenue  and  Fifty-ninth  Street  entrance,  Anna 
Devin  sat,  watching  absently  the  passing  show.  She 
wore  a  plain  black  India-silk  dress,  her  neck  and 
arms  showing  faintly  through  the  thin  stuff;  and  a 
broad  black  straw  hat.  A  light  parasol  leaned  against 
her  knee.  One  ungloved  hand  resting  in  her  lap  held 
a  small  black  fan.  Beside  her  on  the  seat  lay  a  sum 
mer  magazine,  separating  her  from  an  Irish  laborer 
in  overalls  who  was  peacefully  smoking  his  pipe.  Next 
to  him  was  a  swarthy  little  woman  with  a  scarlet  silk 
kerchief  crossed  on  her  breast,  holding  a  sallow  child 

156 


THE  FORERUNNER 

in  her  arms  and  trying  to  hush  its  crying.  The  other 
two  seats  were  occupied  by  a  courting  couple.  His 
arm  was  frankly  round  her,  and  her  head  now  and 
then  touched  his  shoulder.  The  tobacco-smoke  and 
the  baby's  crying  annoyed  Anna;  she  often  glanced 
up  the  line  of  benches  beyond,  but  a  vacant  seat  was 
not  to  be  seen;  and  with  a  weary  droop,  her  eyes 
would  travel  back  to  the  procession  of  carriages,  neg 
lecting  the  pedestrians  between.  She  was  rather 
pale,  and  her  head,  unsupported  by  the  back  of  the 
bench,  sunk  a  little,  languidly.  Her  dark  eyes,  look 
ing  up  from  under  the  rim  of  her  hat,  rested  for  a 
brief  instant  on  each  carriage  as  it  passed;  not  often 
was  she  interested  enough  to  follow  any  one  of  them 
farther  in  its  course.  But  now  a  victoria  trimly  ap 
pointed  and  containing  an  incongruously  gorgeous 
woman,  drew  her  gaze;  again  a  four-in-hand  coach, 
crowded  with  sight-seers,  rolling  out  into  Fifth  Ave 
nue  with  a  stirring  though  unsteady  salute  from  the 
horn.  She  took  these,  not  necessarily  as  evidences 
of  rank  or  fashion,  but  as  some  spectacular  relief  from 
the  general  level  of  unkempt  humanity;  much  as  she 
watched  out  of  sight  a  bevy  of  young  girls  in  light 
muslin  dresses,  hanging  together  and  giggling  explos 
ively.  It  seemed  fairly  evident  that  no  one  who  was 
not  obliged  to  stay  in  town  would  be  there;  and 
to  be  obliged  to  do  anything  unpleasant  was  entirely 
outside  Anna's  conception  of  the  fortunate  among 
men.  But  at  least  the  unfortunate,  she  thought, 
might  have  the  grace  to  make  themselves  as  little  un 
pleasant  in  appearance  as  possible.  Few  of  them, 
though,  apparently  looked  at  it  in  this  light;  wher 
ever  her  glance  turned  it  fell  on  some  unshaven,  per- 

157 


THE   FORERUNNER 

spiring  face;  some  coarse  dress  idly  pinned  and  gap 
ing  in  the  back;  some  waxy-white  child  sucking 
a  neglected  milk-bottle — some  sign  of  distress,  of 
shameless  poverty.  And  even  the  great  breathing- 
place  for  all  this  cramped  misshapen  life — the  park 
itself,  that  has  such  beautiful  moods — could  not  with 
all  its  care  look  beautiful  now.  Its  greens  were  yel 
lowing,  wasting,  withering.  Its  guarded  flowers, 
looked  at  so  longingly,  could  not  keep  their  freshness. 
The  soggy  air  had  not  life  enough  even  for  them. 
Heavy  and  sluggish,  it  still  caught  up  and  held  every 
evil  and  unclean  smell.  And  here  among  rolling 
stretches  of  turf  and  great  trees  that  had  hardly 
dropped  a  leaf,  with  flowers  and  fountains  in  sight, 
the  slow  incessant  stream  of  humanity,  fainting  for 
lack  of  air,  poisoned  what  remained. 

Yet  here  Anna  had  spent  her  afternoon.  In  the 
early  hours  it  had  not  been  so  bad.  And  now  that 
the  crowd  released  from  shops,  offices,  factories,  was 
every  moment  increasing,  she  had  not  energy  enough 
to  go  up  into  the  heart  of  the  park,  where  there  might 
be  found  a  comparatively  empty  corner.  Besides,  she 
had  not  time.  Vaguely  she  thought  it  must  be  get 
ting  late,  though  the  grayish-yellow  haze  concealed 
the  whereabouts  of  the  sun.  She  had  no  watch,  but 
she  had  expected  to  get  back  to  the  hotel  before  six, 
as  Dan,  when  he  came  back  to  dinner,  was  always 
hungry. 

But  suddenly,  while  there  was  as  yet  no  change 
in  the  sickly  light,  the  six  o'clock  whistles  began  to 
sound.  First  one  shrill  note  afar  in  the  distance,  then 
a  deeper  one  joining  in,  then  a  swelling  chorus,  still 
distant,  but  rising  above  the  clatter  of  the  streets; 

158 


THE   FORERUNNER 

mounting  and  falling  by  semitones,  and  dying  away 
in  a  long-sustained  melancholy  minor. 

Anna  had  risen,  pulling  on  her  silk  gloves  and 
gathering  up  her  small  possessions.  She  was  late, 
still  she  could  not  hurry;  simply  to  move  was  hard 
enough.  And,  keeping  to  the  right,  it  was  difficult 
to  make  way  through  the  people  that  were  pressing 
in  now  by  every  entrance,  to  try  for  their  breath  of 
fresh  air  before  night  or  the  policeman  should  drive 
them  forth.  Summer  evenings,  however,  are  long 
in  the  park;  policemen  may  be  evaded  and  are  not 
inexorable;  and  the  early  dawn  might  surprise  some 
of  these  couples  making  for  secluded  nooks. 

Anna  walked  across  the  plaza,  whose  great  hotels 
were  already  flashing  out  their  electric  lights,  and 
waited  for  a  stage.  From  north  and  south  carriages 
and  wagons  streamed  through  the  broad  square,  and 
east  and  west  the  cars  rattled  along,  filled  with  the 
homeward  hurrying  throng.  The  stage,  when  it 
came,  had  two  or  three  empty  places  inside,  though  the 
seats  on  the  roof  were  crowded.  Anna,  however,  would 
not  in  any  case  have  imperilled  her  dignity  by  an 
ascent  of  the  ladder.  She  got  in  and  the  stage  lum 
bered  on.  All  the  windows  were  open  and  the  vehi 
cle's  motion  made  a  little  stir  in  the  stagnant  air. 
When  Anna  had  paid  her  fare  she  had  eighteen  cents 
left  in  her  purse.  That  morning  she  had  given  Dan 
the  two  or  three  dollar  bills  that  she  possessed.  How 
ever,  she  got  out  at  Thirty-third  Street  and  entered 
the  big  brown-stone  caravanserai — favored  resting 
place,  especially  at  this  season,  of  traders  and  pil 
grims — with  the  unobserving  manner  of  one  at 
home.  She  went  directly  up  to  the  small  inside  room 

159 


THE   FORERUNNER 

— one  of  the  cheapest  having  a  private  bath — which 
she  and  Dan  had  occupied  for  the  last  month.  Before 
that  they  had  had  a  larger  room,  though  even  then 
they  had  taken  most  of  their  meals  outside  the  hotel, 
and  had  lived  by  no  means  extravagantly,  in  Dan's 
estimation.  They  must  have  decent  accommodation 
and  food,  of  course;  and  the  big  hotel  was  a  con 
venient  business  address  and  place  of  meeting  for 
him.  Therefore  he  had  chosen  to  stay  there,  even 
when  they  were  forced  to  economize  sharply ;  for  after 
all  any  day  might  see  the  end  of  their  stay.  Why 
bother  to  move  when  it  was  a  question  probably  of  a 
week  or  so  at  most?  So  they  had  stayed  on  from 
week  to  week. 

Anna  took  her  bath  and  began  to  dress,  all  the 
while  listening  vaguely  for  Dan's  footstep.  He  was 
often  late,  but  if  he  had  been  detained  for  dinner  he 
would  have  telegraphed  her  before  this.  She  laid 
out  some  fresh  clothes  for  him  and  then  threw  herself 
on  the  bed  to  wait.  The  bath  had  refreshed  her,  but 
she  still  felt  utterly  listless  and  enervated.  It  was 
not  only  the  physical  terrors  of  the  summer  that  op 
pressed  her — though  these  gathered  additional  force 
from  novelty  and  her  experience  of  a  possible  climate. 
Her  tonelessness  was  mental,  too — it  was  the  weaken 
ing  of  a  string  kept  too  long  at  high  tension.  The 
hope  deferred  that  makes  the  heart  sick  had  been  hers 
— it  seemed  to  her — for  ages.  It  was  not  so  long,  in 
actual  time — it  was  not  long,  considering  what  she 
expected  to  be  done.  And  she  could  have  waited 
patiently,  perhaps,  if  a  more  impatient  spirit  had  not 
perpetually  keyed  hers  up.  Dan's  vision,  overleap 
ing  the  obstacles  in  his  path,  went  straight  to  the  goal ; 

160 


THE  FORERUNNER 

it  foreshortened  what  lay  near  at  hand  and  brought 
the  distance  so  close  that  it  seemed  one  had  but  to 
put  out  one's  hand  and  grasp.  He  grasped  it  in 
imagination;  already  in  his  sanguine  dreams  he  en 
joyed  some  of  the  pleasures  of  success.  The  chame 
leon's  dish  afforded  him  at  least  a  kind  of  stimulant. 
But  a  literal  person  with  a  healthy  material  appetite 
cannot  make  merry  at  a  Barmecide  feast.  That  sort 
of  entertainment  had  long  since  palled  on  Anna. 
When  now  she  was  invited  to  console  herself  for  pres 
ent  short  commons  by  the  prospect  of  plenty  to-mor 
row  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow,  she  revolted  in 
dumb  hunger.  If  she  had  been  told  to  content  her 
self  as  she  was  for  a  year — for  two  years — it  would 
have  been  easier.  Anything  is  easier  than  perpetual 
postponement.  But  a  bright  to-morrow  that  never 
comes  makes  to-day  of  no  account. 

Anna  desired,  as  passionately  as  she  could  desire 
anything,  to  live  to-day.  It  was  well  for  Dan;  he 
was  busy;  her  days  and  her  hands  were  empty.  She 
was  hung  up  in  the  air  between  the  duties  of  earth 
and  the  rewards  of  heaven.  She  was  as  miserable  as 
a  bird  whose  nest  has  been  destroyed  and  who  is  pre 
vented  from  making  another.  There  were  no  ma 
terials  for  nest-making  in  this  bleak  little  corner  of 
the  caravanserai.  Anna  had  almost  nothing  to  do, 
even  for  Dan,  in  the  long  days  when  he  was  away. 
But  she  clung  to  that  little;  mended  and  kept  his 
clothes  in  perfect  order,  having  a  sharp  eye  for  the 
laundress  and  tailor.  And  when  Dan  had  urged  her 
to  go  '  'some where  to  the  seashore"  and  be  comforta 
ble  without  him,  she  had  refused  with  a  passion  of 
tears  that  mystified  while  it  deeply  touched  him, 

161 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Dan's  imagination  had  its  marked  limits;  it  had 
never  represented  to  him  fairly  Anna's  state  of 
mind. 

She  was  homesick  now — not  so  much  for  her  birth 
place,  the  memories  of  her  disappointments  there 
were  too  bitter — but  for  some  place  that  might  be  a 
home.  She  felt  lost  in  the  great  city  as  a  grain  of 
sand  in  the  sea.  It  stunned,  bewildered,  crushed 
her.  In  the  months  of  her  stay  this  feeling  only  grew 
stronger.  She  had  not  made  a  friend,  scarcely  an 
acquaintance;  and  without  these  she  could  take  no 
definite  step  toward  orientating  herself.  She  knew 
the  principal  streets  by  name,  the  shops,  the  park. 
Dan  had  taken  her  to  some  roof-gardens  and  vaude 
ville  shows.  They  had  a  rather  varied  experience  of 
the  cheaper  restaurants.  The  rest  of  Anna's  im 
pressions  concerned  the  life  of  the  hotel.  She  saw 
many  things  that  interested  and  amused  her;  but 
she  needed  to  be  a  part  of  them  in  some  way.  To  be 
a  mere  spectator  without  any  way  of  using  her  im 
pressions — no,  decidedly  that  was  not  her  role.  And 
in  any  case  the  seamy  side  of  things  could  not  interest 
her  even  as  a  spectator;  and  she  knew  well  that  she 
was  seeing  the  wrong  side  of  the  city.  She  longed 
for  the  day  when  the  other  side — the  pattern,  the 
gloss,  the  glow  of  color,  that  she  could  guess  at, 
though  all  she  touched  was  knots  and  tangles  and 
frayed  ends — should  be  hers  to  enjoy.  But  that  day 
— Dan's  to-morrow — alas,  would  it  ever  come?  She 
had  not  yet  said  to  herself  that  it  would  not,  but  the 
suggestion  of  doubt  was  terrible  enough.  And  doubt 
was  strong  in  her  to-day,  for  this  morning  Dan,  need 
ing  to  raise  some  money,  had  taken  all  his  jewelry 

162 


THE   FORERUNNER 

and  her  own,  including  both  watches,  "for  a  day  or 
so."  So  they  had  touched  rock-bottom  financially. 
It  looked  as  though  the  next  thing  must  be  a  rise,  but 
who  could  tell  when  it  would  come?  Not  Dan.  He 
had  deceived  her  and  himself  too  often. 

And  yet  faith  in  him  was  still  stronger  than  her 
doubt — she  could  not  escape  the  influence  of  his  own 
faith  in  himself.  If  she  had  once  looked  on  him  as  a 
failure,  her  own  attitude  would  have  been  very  differ 
ent.  As  things  were  she  was  still  in  the  attitude  of 
waiting — but  she  was  very  weary  of  it. 

The  room  had  grown  dark  and  she  was  slipping  into 
a  doze  when  she  heard  Dan's  firm  footstep  down  the 
carpeted  corridor.  She  got  up  and  turned  on  the 
electric  lights  as  he  came  in,  and  a  glance  told  her  that 
as  usual  he  was  fagged  out.  He  smiled  at  her,  throw 
ing  his  straw  hat  into  a  chair ;  but  they  did  not  speak 
till  he  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  his  collar,  which 
had  wilted  round  the  top.  Then  he  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"Oh,  Lord,  I  feel  like  a  sweep!  What  weather. 
You  look  cool  enough,  though." 

"Yes,  I  am  now/'  sighed  Anna.  "But  it  has  been 
an  awful  day.  You  poor  boy,  you  look  melted." 

"Worse.  Don't  touch  me,  dearest!  Wow,  how 
everything  sticks!  But  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute 


or  so." 


He  seized  his  clothes  and  a  bottle  of  Florida  water, 
which  he  liked  in  his  bath,  and  shut  himself  into  the 
bathroom,  where  a  vigorous  splashing  soon  bespoke 
the  intensity  of  his  relief. 

Anna  sat  down  before  the  bureau  to  brush  her  hair, 
which  the  humid  air  tended  to  make  dull  and  stringy, 

163 


THE  FORERUNNER 

and  was  still  at  it  when  Dan  emerged,  in  a  blue  dress 
ing-gown,  and  dropped  on  the  bed. 

"I've  got  to  sleep,"  he  said.  "Wake  me  up  in 
twenty  minutes,  will  you,  dear?  I've  asked  some 
people  to  dinner  at  half-past  seven — tell  you  all  about 
it  by  and  by." 

"But  who  are  they — tell  me  that!"  cried  Anna, 
bending  over  him. 

He  looked  up  drowsily. 

"Colonel  O'Beirne  and  his  wife.  Interesting  peo 
ple — South  Americans,  I  think.  .  .  .  You  put 
on  that  blue  dress  I  like — will  you?" 

He  turned,  throwing  up  his  arm  to  keep  out  the 
light,  and  was  asleep  in  a  moment.  Anna  stood 
looking  at  him;  wishing  that  her  hair  curled  as  his 
did,  lying  in  little  segments  of  rings  against  his  tem 
ples  and  neck  still  damp  from  the  bath;  wishing  he 
would  wake  up  and  tell  her  more;  wishing  she  had  a 
new  dress  to  wear. 

But  her  toilette  was  a  longer  affair  than  his,  and 
it  was  already  seven  by  the  little  clock  on  the  bureau. 
She  returned  to  arrange  her  hair,  which  she  now  wore 
drawn  softly  back  from  her  face  in  the  prevailing 
mode,  even  more  carefully  than  usual.  She  did  not 
know  who  Colonel  O'Beirne  and  his  wife  might  be, 
but  at  least  they  were  people,  and  people  were  rare. 
And  evidently  from  Dan's  request  about  the  blue 
dress  they  were  to  dine  at  the  hotel;  that  meant  a 
good  dinner,  which  was  rare,  too.  But  how  could 
they  afford ?  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  im 
patiently;  that  was  Dan's  affair.  And  the  question 
did  not  check  her  rising  spirit.  The  process  of  getting 
into  the  blue  dress  did,  a  little.  Anna  had  bought 

164 


THE  FORERUNNER 

no  good  clothes  since  the  honeymoon  days  in  San 
Francisco.  This  was  a  winter  dress,  too  heavy  and 
elaborate  for  the  present  occasion.  Moreover,  it  no 
longer  fitted  perfectly,  for  she  was  thinner  than  for 
merly.  But  it  was  a  beautiful  fabric  and  color  and 
well-made;  the  lace  on  it  was  good,  and  it  became 
her.  Anna  took  courage  as  she  contemplated  her 
reflection,  the  knowledge  that  she  looked  well  am 
ply  compensating  for  any  physical  discomfort.  So, 
rather  happy,  she  went  to  wake  Dan. 

He  seemed  perfectly  refreshed  by  his  nap;  he  was 
in  buoyant  spirits.  Anna  laid  out  his  evening  clothes 
and  he  dressed,  talking  gayly. 

"I  thought  you  might  be  amused  to  meet  these 
people.  I  was.  O'Beirne  has  been  everywhere  and 
got  mixed  up  in  something  everywhere  he's  been. 
Too  much  of  a  rolling  stone  to  get  anywhere  in  par 
ticular,  I  guess,  but  he's,  a  shrewd  fellow,  too.  Wife's 
a  jolly  sort  of  woman.  I  took  dinner  with  them  a  day 
or  so  ago " 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  said  Anna  jealously. 
"I  thought  when  you  stayed  away  it  was  on  busi 
ness." 

"Well,  this  was  business.  You  see,  it's  this  way. 
Green,  one  of  our  men,  you  know,  knows  O'Beirne, 
and  wanted  me  to  look  him  up  here.  Green  didn't 
know  then  where  O'Beirne  was — said  the  last  he 
heard  of  him  he  was  in  Chili — but  he  always  turns  up 
in  New  York  about  once  in  so  often,  and  always  stops 
at  the  Gilsey.  And  he  knows  a  lot  of  people  here. 
So  I  went  round  when  we  first  came,  but  he  wasn't 
there  and  I  left  a  note  for  him.  Then  the  other  after 
noon  late  he  telephoned  me  that  he'd  just  got  in,  and 

165 


THE  FORERUNNER 

asked  me  to  dinner.  I  didn't  know  he  had  a  wife  with 
him  and  of  course  he  didn't  know  I  had.  But  when 
I  found  they  were  pleasant  people  I  arranged  for 
you  to  meet  them.  Now  are  you  satisfied,  you 
minx?" 

"Well,  partly,"  said  Anna,  leaning  back  in  her 
wicker  chair  and  fanning  herself  languidly.  "Are 
they  at  all  swell  people?" 

"Oh,  no.  She  was  dressed  very  plainly.  They're 
both  middle-aged.  But  you  needn't  turn  up  your 
nose  at  them,  Miss.  They  gave  me  a  rattling  good 
dinner,  and  O'Beirne  has  some  whiskey  that's  forty 
years  old." 

They  both  burst  out  laughing  at  this. 

"Much  I  care  about  his  whiskey!  Or  you  either, 
for  that  matter,"  Anna  said  scornfully.  "Is  he  Irish? 
His  name  is." 

"I  guess  so.  I  don't  know  where  he  comes  from. 
Just  now  he  hails  from  Mexico,  which  must  be  a 
mighty  interesting  country  from  what  he  says  of  it. 
And  by  the  way  I'll  want  to  talk  with  him  a  little 
after  dinner.  You'll  get  on  with  Mrs.  0.'  all  right, 
won't  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Anna  with  reserve.  "It  de 
pends  on  what  she's  like." 

"You  see,  I'm  off  to  Boston — or  I  expect  to  be — 
to-morrow,  and  O'Beirne  may  be  gone  by  the  time 
I'm  back.  He  doesn't  know  how  long  he'll  have  to 
stay  here." 

"Oh,"  said  Anna,  indifferently.  "Well,  I  hope  we 
shall  have  something  decent  to  eat  to-night." 

"We'll  try  to— for  a  change.  Lord,  I  hope  I'll 
never  see  one  of  those  table-d'h6te  birds  again!" 

166 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"No,  let's  have  some  real  birds  to-night.  And 
some — champagne  ?" 

"Well,  champagne — well,  yes,  if  you  want  it.  But 
just  wait  till  I  get  back  from  Boston  and  you  shall 

have  all  you  want.  Anna "  he  finished  tying  his 

white  necktie  carefully,  and  turned  with  a  flash  of 
his  blue  eyes — "Purcell  has  finally  agreed  to  go  in 
with  us." 

Anna  thought  she  had  heard  something  like  this 
before. 

"Has  he?" 

"Yes,  he's  agreed  to  it.  He  was  to  be  here  to-day 
and  sign  the  papers,  but  I  had  a  letter  from  him  say 
ing  he  was  ill  down  at  his  country  place  somewhere 
near  Boston,  and  that  if  he  wasn't  able  to  come  on 
in  a  day  or  so,  he'd  telegraph  me  to  come  there.  Con 
found  the  old  rascal!  He  might  as  well  have  made 
up  his  mind  to  it  a  month  or  more  ago,  and  saved 
me  all  this  time.  But  it's  over  now — it's  done  now, 
thank  heaven!" 

Dan  stretched  out  his  arms  with  a  long  sigh  and 
let  them  fall,  looking  abstractedly  over  Anna's  head. 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  quickening  though  still 
dubious  interest.  It  struck  her  again  how  he  had 
grown  visibly  older  in  a  few  months.  His  hair  was 
streaked  with  gray  at  the  temples.  There  was  a 
deep  fold  between  his  eyebrows,  especially  marked 
when,  as  now,  he  wore  his  intent,  slightly  frowning, 
look ;  there  was  a  network  of  fine  lines  about  his  eyes, 
and  the  eyeballs  often  had  a  curious  seared  look.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  these  signs  of  strain  were  due  partly 
at  least  to  the  constant  glare  of  sun  on  snow  at  Mai- 
lory;  but  they  added  ten  years  to  his  apparent  age. 

167 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Anna,  however,  thought  him  still  very  handsome, 
especially  in  evening  dress.  And  he  looked  more 
important.  His  face  was  more  resolute  than  ever — 
the  mouth  now  rather  grim. 

It  softened,  though,  as  he  became  conscious  of  her 
again.  He  bent  down  to  kiss  her. 

"I'm  glad  of  it  for  your  sake  more  than  anything," 
he  said.  "Of  course,  I  knew  it  was  bound  to  come 
but  the  waiting's  hard.  It  takes  people  here  so  long, 
to  see  a  thing.  They  sit  on  their  money-bags  as  if 
you  were  trying  to  steal  something,  confound  them! 
But  now — but  now  we  can  go  ahead." 

"What  can  we  do  now?"  Anna  asked  vaguely. 

"Why,  we  can  go  on  and  build  the  smelter.  Pur- 
cell  has  made  up  his  mind  to  put  in  a  good  deal  of 
money.  Not  as  much  as  I  wanted,  but— a  good  deal. 
And  the  next  thing  is  the  railroad!  We'll  go  back 
out  there  as  soon  as  I  close  this  up." 

Anna  rose. 

"Well,  I  hope  it  is  over,"  she  sighed.  "And  the 
next  time  we  come  to  New  York  I  hope  it  will  be  in 
the  winter,  and  that  we'll  be  able  to  see  things — and 
do  something." 

"Of  course  we  will,"  Dan  assured  her  fondly. 
"Next  winter." 

She  brushed  a  fleck  of  dust  from  his  shoulder  and 
looked  him  over  approvingly. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  keep  so  well  dressed,"  she 
pondered.  "Your  clothes  are  older  than  mine  and 
yet  you  always  look  well/' 

"And  don't  you?"  He  slipped  his  arm  round  her 
and  smiled  at  her  in  the  mirror. 

"Oh;  no,  I  am  way  out  of  style.  But  anyhow" — 
168 


THE  FORERUNNER 

she  laughed  rather  sharply — "we  don't  look  like  peo 
ple  who  have  just  pawned  their  watches  to  pay  their 
board-bill,  do  we?" 

Dan's  face  clouded. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  I  guess  we'll  pay  our  bills 
all  right." 

A  knock  sounded  at  the  door — the  bell-boy  with  a 
card. 


169 


II. 

HPHE  O'Beirnes  struck  Anna  at  first  glance  as  Dan's 
-*-  sort  of  people.  The  Colonel  was  a  big  man  with 
an  unruly  waist-line,  or  rather  none  at  all ;  somewhat 
bald,  with  a  long  dark  mustache,  and  small  greenish 
blue  eyes.  He  was  in  evening  dress,  but  wore  a  very 
low-cut  collar,  leaving  his  stout  neck  quite  free,  and 
a  ready-made  tie;  obviously  a  man's  man  and  a  man 
of  business;  with  also  a  sporting  flavor  which  Anna 
instantly  detected  and  disliked.  He  had  a  frank, 
perfectly  easy,  good-humored  way;  as  remote  from 
the  rustic  as  it  was  from  Anna's  idea  of  the  manner 
of  good  society.  His  wife  had  much  the  same  way,  a 
little  more  brusque  perhaps;  and  Anna  thought  her 
masculine.  She  was  short,  with  a  robust  muscular 
figure;  curly  black  hair  flecked  with  grey,  very  fine 
dark  eyes  and  a  rather  red  face.  Her  dress  was 
severely  plain — a  dust-colored  mannish  suit,  well- 
cut,  and  a  black  straw  turban.  Anna  at  once  felt 
overdressed  and  uncomfortable;  and  was  in  conse 
quence  inclined  to  be  a  little  more  majestic  than 
usual.  But  she  determined  to  be  gracious  and  to 
enjoy  the  evening,  if  possible;  and  accordingly  the 
first  stiffness  of  her  manner  soon  relaxed.  Her  sur 
roundings  helped  her  not  a  little  to  keep  that  resolu 
tion.  She  was  glad  to  be  once  more  in  the  big  dining- 
room,  kept  tolerably  cool,  whose  marble  pillars  and 
gilding  she  liked;  with  its  shaded  lights  and  flowers 

170 


THE  FORERUNNER 

on  the  tables,  the  music,  the  pompous  waiters,  and 
the  well-dressed  people,  of  whom  there  were  always 
some  to  look  at.  The  O'Beirnes  also  were  interested 
in  the  room. 

"They  were  just  finishing  up  this  thing  last  time  I 
was  in  town/'  remarked  the  Colonel.  "It's  pretty 
gay,  hey,  Flora?  I  wouldn't  dare  eat  breakfast  here. 
No,  give  me  the  old  place  over  on  Broadway.  No 
frills  there  to  make  a  pair  of  tramps  like  us  feel  hum 
ble.  Just  food — and  drink — and  that's  about  all 
we're  used  to.  You  can  get  those  even  down  in 
Mexico;  but  as  for  onyx  pillars  with  gold  trim 
mings " 

"It's  true  our  house  has  wooden  posts/'  Mrs. 
O'Beirne  put  in  briskly,  "but  hasn't  Michael  there 
promised  me  solid  silver  furniture  when  he  gets  the 
water  pumped  out  of  his  silver-mine  over  in  Sonora?" 

She  laughed  quite  loudly,  and  tossed  off  her  cock 
tail  just  as  the  men  did  theirs.  Anna,  loathing  the 
mixture,  let  hers  severely  alone. 

"Tell  me  about  the  silver-mine,"  she  said,  no  other 
subject  presenting  itself  at  the  moment. 

"Lucky  for  you  that  you  asked  me  that  instead  of 
the  Colonel — for  I  can  tell  you  in  two  words,  while 
he  would  talk  you  to  death  about  it,  if  he  got  a  chance. 
It's  his  latest,  and  he's  chock-full  of  it,  up  to  the  brim. 
Ask  your  husband — he's  heard." 

"I  have,  and  I  want  to  hear  more,"  said  Dan,  or 
dering  the  dinner  with  an  occasional  reference  to  the 
Colonel. 

"There,  you  see,"  said  that  warrior  equably.  "(A 
good  steak  for  me,  Devin,  there's  nothing  better,  and 
Flora's  the  same.)  I  defy  any  man  not  to  want  to 

171 


THE  FORERUNNER 

hear  more  of  that  mine.  But  as  to  ladies  I  can't 
speak;  maybe  Mrs.  Devin  won't  be  interested." 

"She  will,"  said  Flora,  "for  I'll  wager  her  husband's 
packing  his  trunk  now — in  his  mind — to  go  down 
there.  Ah,  Michael,  you've  the  tongue — ain't  I  ready 
to  go  with  you  myself  any  minute?" 

"Of  course  you  are.  I  can't  get  rid  of  you,  I  know 
that  well  enough,"  said  the  Colonel  cheerfully.  "Yes, 
whiskey — Scotch — and  seltzer." 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  O'Beirne  will  have  some  cham 
pagne?  Ladies  prefer  that,  I  believe " 

"Champagne,  no,"  said  the  Colonel's  lady.  "A 
little  good  whiskey  for  me  if  you  please — Scotch  and 
seltzer,  same  as  Michael.  You  see,  we're  both  rene 
gades,  taking  to  Scotch;  but  I  tell  him  he's  the  worst, 
for  he's  not  only  Irish,  but  born  in  Kentucky  to  boot." 

Whiskey!  Anna  had  never  seen  a  woman  drink 
whiskey.  With  her  half-pint  of  Veuve  Clicquot  she 
inwardly  marked  the  chasm  of  taste  between  Mrs. 
O'Beirne  and  herself.  No,  decidedly  she  should  not 
get  on  with  her. 

"Never  mind  where  I  was  born,"  interposed  the 
Colonel.  "I  can't  be  President,  anyhow,  because  I'm 
a  Colombian  citizen,  so  they  tell  me.  There's  a 
puzzle  for  you,  Devin — but  we'll  get  to  that  after 
ward.  Go  on,  Flora,  tell  your  story." 

"My  story!  I  disown  it.  It's  far  too  grand  for 
me.  I  don't  even  believe  it — it's  far  too  good  a  story 
to  be  true.  Well,  Mrs.  Devin,  the  tale  goes  that  when 
the  bloody  Spaniards  held  Mexico  as  a  province 
the  Jesuits  —  and  though  I'm  a  Catholic,  a  bad 
one,  I  don't  uphold  them — got  from  some  of  their 
Aztec  converts  the  secret  of  some  wonderful  silver- 

172 


THE  FORERUNNER 

mines  in  the  northern  mountains  of  Sonora.  The 
man  that  told  us  the  story — he  was  a  patriot  and 
fought  with  Juarez  and  was  bitter  against  the  Church 
— said  that  the  Jesuits  put  out  of  the  way  the  Indians 
that  guided  them  to  the  mines,  so  that  only  they 
had  the  secret.  There  was  a  legend  that  prevented 
the  Indians  themselves  from  working  the  mines.  The 
former  owners  had  offended  one  of  the  Mexican  gods, 
and  consequently  died  of  the  plague;  and  there  was 
a  prophecy  that  whoever  should  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  mines  afterward  would  die  a  violent  death. 
Well,  the  Jesuits  worked  the  mines  till  1820,  when 
they  were  driven  out  and  a  lot  of  them  massacred  by 
the  Apaches,  the  pest  of  that  country.  And  the 
Indians  held  the  country,  though  they  didn't  do  any 
thing  with  the  mines,  until  Maximilian  put  his  soldiers 
in  there.  Maximilian  sent  some  Austrian  engineers, 
who  reported  that  the  mines  were  enormously  rich 
but  badly  wanted  pumping  out;  and  they  were  work 
ing  to  get  the  machinery  in  when  Maximilian  was 
taken  and  shot  at  Queretaro.  Immediately  the 
Apaches  rose  again  and  killed  the  Austrians,  smashed 
the  machinery  and  filled  the  openings  of  the  mines 
up  with  rocks.  And  so  they  stayed  till  recently. 
Now  that  Mexico  is  getting  civilized,  you  see,  the 
Indians  have  been  cleared  out  for  good ;  and  Colonel 
O'Beirne  sees  his  chance.  The  mines  belong  to  who 
ever  discovers  them  now,  and  he's  got  a  copy  of  the 
old  map  made  by  Maximilian's  engineers.  There's 
nothing  in  the  world  he  loves  better  than  an  adventure 
like  that — a  million  in  the  bush,  with  maybe  a  bit 
of  fighting  to  get  it.  Isn't  that  right,  Michael?" 
"Right  except  the  fighting,  Flora,"  said  the  Colonel 
173 


THE  FORERUNNER 

gravely.  "I'm  a  man  of  peace.  But  if  I  could  get 
away  I'd  go  straight  into  those  mountains  all  the 
same.  Would  you  go  along,  Devin?" 

"Wouldn't  mind  it  at  all,"  Dan  said  promptly. 
"Perhaps  I'll  take  a  vacation  in  the  spring  and  come 
down  and  look  you  up." 

"Do."  "Yes,  do  that!"  the  Colonel  and  his 
wife  responded  in  one  breath.  "Come  and  stay  all 
summer.  And  bring  Mrs.  Devin,  too,  of  course.  It 
isn't  half  a  bad  country  where  we  are." 

"I  hope  you'll  see  the  necessity  of  coming,  too," 
Mrs.  O'Beirne  turned  to  Anna.  "I  don't  know  wheth 
er  you've  the  same  rule  that  I  have,  but  I  think 
it  would  be  useful  to  you :  I  never  let  Michael  go  any 
where  alone.  I  made  up  my  mind  when  I  married 
him  to  be  an  Arab — or  a — what-d'ye-call-'em,  those 
people  that  live  in  tents — a  Nomad,  that's  it,  a 
Nomad,  and  I  said  to  him:  'Whithersoever  you  go, 
I'll  go  also,  tent  or  no  tent,  whether  it's  to  Kam- 
tchatka  or  Peru — and  don't  hope  to  get  rid  of  me.' 
That's  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  if  I'm  not  an  old 
campaigner  by  this  time,  it's  not  Michael's  fault — 
nor  mine,  either,  for  I've  stuck  to  my  word.  I've 
been  in  every  yellow-fever  country  in  the  world  with 
him — somehow  it's  that  kind  he  likes — and  I  suppose 
I've  kept  him  out  of  more  scrapes  than  he's  got  into, 
and  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  You  see  when  it 
comes  to  a  tight  squeeze  of  any  kind,  Michael,  if  he 
had  only  himself  to  think  about,  would  just  go  ahead. 
But  now  he  has  to  think:  There's  Flora:  how  about 
the  old  lady?  Isn't  this  a  bit  stiff  for  her?  If  he 
decides  it  is  he  doesn't  go  in;  and  in  that  case,  you 
may  depend  on  it,  he  is  better  out.  I'm  not  a  hot- 

174 


THE   FORERUNNER 

house  plant.  Our  last  siege  of  yellow-fever  down  in 
Ecuador  showed  that.  Neither  of  us  got  it,  of  course 
— we  knew  how  to  take  care  of  ourselves,  or  rather 
I  knew  how  to  take  care  of  myself  and  Michael — but 
people  died  round  us  like  flies,  our  consul  among 
others;  and  we  were  still  there,  and  the  yellow-fever, 
too,  when  the  new  consul  arrived  with  his  family — 
and  he  turned  tail  and  went  back  to  the  States  as  fast 
as  he  could  make  it,  and  resigned.  It  wasn't  an  ex 
perience  I'd  like  to  have  often.  Take  my  advice, 
Mrs.  Devin,  and  keep  your  husband  on  this  continent 
if  possible." 

"He  hasn't  shown  any  signs  of  wanting  to  leave  it," 
said  Anna,  smiling  mechanically  and  a  good  deal 
bored  by  this  loquacity.  Both  the  O'Beirnes  seemed 
to  be  unlimited  talkers,  she  thought;  the  Colonel  was 
holding  forth  to  Dan  about  Mexico. 

"Ah,  you  never  can  tell,"  Mrs.  O'Beirne  shook  her 
head  wisely.  "With  men  like  them — and  I  wouldn't 
give  much  for  the  other  kind — you  never  know  where 
you  are  or  at  least  how  long  you're  going  to  stay  there. 
Listen  to  that  now.  To  hear  Michael  talk  about 
the  Sonora  Land  Company,  you'd  think  he  hadn't 
another  idea  in  his  head.  If  he  gets  onto  the  silver- 
mines  it's  the  same.  Ten  to  one,  he'll  drop  the  Land 
Company  and  be  off  to  the  mines  before  many  weeks 
— and  then,  next  you  hear  of  us,  we'll  be  growing 
opium  in  China,  very  likely." 

"And  you  think  they're  alike — my  husband  and 
yours?  Why?"  Anna  was  faintly,  rather  patron 
izingly,  amused. 

"Oh,  they're  alike.  I  can  tell  from  the  little  I've 
seen  of  your  husband  that  he's  the  adventurous 

175 


THE  FORERUNNER 

sort,  too.  Only  he's  young,  and  Michael's  getting 
old.  Michael  can't  grind  away  at  a  hard  job  as  he 
could  when  he  was  thirty;  he  can't  stay  so  long  in 
one  place.  And  then  he's  had  bad  luck — and  there's 
a  lot  in  that,  my  dear.  If  you  haven't  luck,  you  may 
plan  and  work  all  you  like,  and  at  the  end  perhaps 
not  have  a  house  over  your  head.  Look  at  Michael's 
Venezuelan  Iron  Company,  for  instance.  He  had  a 
big  concession  along  the  bank  of  the  Orinoco  River, 
and  had  just  put  in  a  pile  of  money  and  was  begin 
ning  to  get  some  out.  We'd  have  been  millionnaires  in 
a  year  or  so.  Along  came  one  of  their  revolutions. 
The  rebels  got  in  and  cancelled  Michael's  concession, 
and  got  his  improvements  for  nothing.  We  lost 
everything.  Again  in  Colombia.  Michael  had  big 
grants  of  land  and  a  subsidy  promised  for  his  rail 
way,  and  was  up  here  organizing  his  company  and 
getting  money  to  build  it,  when  before  you  could  say 
Jack  Robinson!  the  Colombian  government  decided 
to  build  itself,  along  a  route  parallel  to  ours.  There 

you    are!    And    then    at    San    Paolo "     Mrs. 

O'Beirne  checked  herself.  "How  I  chatter!  What 
do  you  care  about  all  this !  I  was  only  trying  to  show 
you — what  was  it  now? — oh  yes,  that  you  must  have 
luck  on  your  side.  Michael's  clever  enough,  nobody 
more  so — and  yet  somehow  he  does  the  work  and 
somebody  else  gets  the  benefit.  Ah,  well!"  she 
sighed;  and  added  philosophically,  "We  get  our  fun 
out  of  it." 

Here  she  turned  and  interposing  between  Dan  and 
the  Colonel's  eloquence,  proceeded  to  give  what  she 
called  "a  sober  idea"  of  the  Mexican  prospect.  "Mr. 
Devin  isn't  going  to  invest  anyhow,  you  know, 

176 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Michael/ '  she  observed,  "so  why  shouldn't  I  give 
him  my  side  of  it?" 

"Do,  and  then  let  him  come  and  see  for  himself," 
said  the  Colonel  easily.  "He'll  find  the  reality  a  lot 
better  than  your  idea  of  it.  Women  are  a  good  deal 
like  cats,  anyhow,  even  the  best  of  them,"  he  added. 
"They've  got  to  have  a  soft  warm  corner  and  a 
saucer  of  cream  handy.  Comfort — that's  the  main 
thing  with  them.  Even  Flora  here,  for  all  she  talks 
about  campaigning;  she  hates  to  rough  it.  That's 
their  limitation,  eh,  Devin?" 

Anna  found  herself  free  to  study  some  people  at 
the  next  table,  whose  entrance  had  attracted  her  at 
tention  a  few  minutes  before.  It  was  a  party  of  two 
men  and  two  women;  all  young,  evidently  on  terms1 
of  gay  intimacy,  and  belonging,  from  their  appear 
ance,  to  the  world  that  alone  interested  Anna. 

Of  the  two  men,  one  sat  with  his  back  to  their  table, 
and  the  other  was  half  concealed  from  her  view  by  the 
taller  head  and  shoulders  of  the  first;  but  now  and 
then  when  he  leaned  forward  she  got  a  general  im 
pression  of  well-groomed  blondness  and  a  jolly  smile. 
The  first  man  was  darker  and  had  a  slow,  almost 
drawling  voice.  The  woman  opposite  him  was  tall, 
handsome,  red-haired,  talking  more  than  anyone  else, 
and  looking  delightfully  cool  in  a  dress  of  light  pongee 
and  lace  and  a  white  flowery  hat.  But  it  was  the 
other  woman  who  finally  absorbed  Anna's  attention." 
She  sat  in  profile,  a  few  feet  away,  and  her  whole 
figure,  from  the  light  hat  which  curved  gracefully 
above  her  brows,  its  flowers  and  stems  falling  over 
the  knot  of  dark  hair  at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  to  the 
hem  of  her  long  skirt  trailing  round  the  side  of  her 

177 


THE   FORERUNNER 

chair,  was  charmingly  visible.  A  most  attractive 
figure  it  was — harmonious  and  exquisite  to  the  least 
detail. 

She  was  a  study  in  browns — as  obviously  and  suc 
cessfully  a  study  as  a  portrait  of  herself  by  a  master 
would  have  been.  Her  dress,  also  of  pongee,  was  the 
palest  brown,  her  hat  the  same  tint  wreathed  with 
small  water-lilies,  white  and  faintly  pink,  with  long, 
shining  green  stems.  Her  hair  was  brown ;  her  cheeks 
and  hands  browned  by  the  sun.  She  was  tall  and 
slender;  sat  a  good  deal  bending  over  the  table, 
sometimes  with  her  elbows  on  it;  and  then  the  line 
of  her  head  and  back  made  one  long  continuous  beau 
tiful  line.  She  seemed  to  have  no  small  curves,  no 
broken  lines;  almost  she  seemed  not  to  have  a  bone 
in  her  body,  so  lithe  was  she,  so  soft  and  straight  and 
easy  in  motion.  At  least  it  was  plain  there  was  no 
artificial  boning.  Anna  speculated  and  gazed  wide- 
eyed,  wondering  how  a  woman  who  might  be  said  to 
have  no  figure  at  all  could  wear  her  clothes  in  so  fasci 
nating  a  manner.  Her  small  face  was  not  beautiful 
exactly,  though  she  had  fine  eyes.  But  the  profile, 
the  line  of  the  cheek,  chin,  throat,  and  bosom,  was 
lovely. 

She  was  cool  as  a  water-lily  in  the  shade;  she  was 
like  that  flower,  placidly  swaying  on  a  strong,  flexible 
stem.  There  was  a  definite  look  of  the  open  air  about 
her.  She  might  be  athletic;  certainly  she  was  just 
up  from  the  country.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  in 
formality  about  her  dress,  like  that  of  the  other 
woman.  At  this  season  they  were  not  of  the  city 
they  heeded  it  not.  Some  whim  perhaps  had  brought 
them  into  it  for  a  few  hours,  but  for  them  it  was 

178 


THE  FORERUNNER 

empty — a  desert  where  only  a  million  or  so  of  peo 
ple  stayed  who  couldn't  help  themselves — and  who 
didn't  matter. 

Anna  was  wistful  and  bitter.  How  jolly  they  were! 
The  red-haired  woman  seemed  to  be  doing  the  talk 
ing,  in  a  low,  gurgling  voice  that  made  it  difficult  to 
hear  what  she  was  saying — and  Anna  listened  frankly. 
The  others  laughed  almost  constantly.  So  busy  were 
Anna's  eyes  and  ears  with  them,  that  her  own  guests 
were  patently  neglected.  Finally  Mrs.  O'Beirne, 
with  her  shrewd  twinkling  glance,  cried:  "What  is 
it  that  interests  you  so  much?  You're  lost  to  the 
world!"  And  she  turned  sharply  round  in  her  chair 
to  look. 

What  bad  manners!  Anna  thought,  irritated;  when, 
rather  to  her  amazement,  the  dark-haired  man  whose 
back  she  had  been  observing  turned  round  and  looked 
at  them.  The  lady  of  the  water-lilies  looked,  too — 
she  had  large  inquisitive  greenish-brown  eyes,  and 
on  her  bosom  hung  a  glistening  jewel  with  watery 
green  and  pink  lights — and  the  other  two  glanced 
up.  And  to  Anna's  surprise  the  dark-haired  man 
nodded  to  Dan,  who  acknowledged  the  recognition 
with  equal  carelessness.  Conversation  at  both  tables 
ceased  for  an  instant,  and  then  was  resumed  in  lower 
tones. 

Anna  flushed.  Dan  knew  those  people,  or  one  of 
them  at  least!  And  they  were  now  discussing  her 
party,  she  was  sure  of  it.  The  dark-haired  man 
murmured  something  in  his  lazy  voice.  She  burned 
and  palpitated.  If  only  they  had  not  had  the 
O'Beirnes  with  them — horrid  people!  And  Mrs. 
O'Beirne  thought  her  husband  and  Dan  were  alike! 

179 


THE  FORERUNNER 

At  least  they  didn't  look  alike,  Anna  reflected  con 
temptuously. 

" Young  Purcell,"  Dan  said  across  the  table  to  her, 
taking  no  special  pains  to  whisper  the  information. 
He  nodded  toward  the  other  table,  and  Anna  nodded 
slightly  to  him.  She  did  not  want  to  discuss  young 
Purcell  now,  but  meant  to  find  out  about  him  after 
ward.  Her  thoughts  circled  vaguely  about  him  and 
about  the  water-lily  lady  for  the  rest  of  the  dinner. 
If  young  Purcell's  father  were  really  interested  with 
Dan  hi  a  business  way,  she  might  meet  him — the 
son.  And  she  would  like  to  meet  him — and  perhaps 
the  others,  some  day. 

She  did  meet  young  Purcell  within  an  hour  af 
terward.  Her  party  finished  dinner  first — though 
Anna,  totally  uninterested  in  the  eternal  talk  about 
Sonora  and  the  reasons  why  Colonel  O'Beirne 
didn't  know  whether  he  was  a  citizen  of  Colombia 
or  the  United  States,  thought  they  would  never 
finish — and  she  followed  Mrs.  O'Beirne  out  of  the 
dining-room,  feeling  the  eyes  of  young  Purcell  and 
his  friends  upon  her,  and  very  stately  in  her  self-con 
sciousness.  They  sat  in  one  of  the  big,  almost  empty 
rooms.  Dan  and  Colonel  O'Beirne  were  talking  and 
smoking  a  little  apart,  while  Anna  was  trying  to 
answer  Flora's  questions  about  California,  when  he 
— young  Purcell — came  up  and  spoke  to  Dan.  Anna 
had  her  first  chance  to  see  what  he  was  like.  He  did 
not  look  young  at  all,  she  decided — older  than  Dan 
if  anything.  He  looked  more  tired  than  anything 
else;  his  tall  figure  was  rather  sprawling  and  ungrace 
ful  as  he  leaned  both  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair  and 
humped  his  shoulders.  A  lock  of  hair  hung  a  little 

180 


THE  FORERUNNER 

down  on  his  forehead;  his  tie  had  slipped  a  bit  out 
of  place.  He  smiled  in  a  bored  way,  and  shook  hands 
languidly  with  Colonel  O'Beirne — all  three  were 
standing  now — and  then  he  looked  toward  her, 
toward  Anna.  Dan  turned,  too;  he  was  bringing 
him  over.  Anna  felt  herself  blushing  again — a  de 
tested  trick  of  hers.  But  she  greeted  him  calmly 
enough,  introduced  him  to  Mrs.  O'Beirne,  and  asked 
him  to  sit  down.  He  slid  into  the  indicated  chair, 
and  declined  the  cigar  that  Dan  offered  him  with  a 
careless  upward  glance  and  smile.  "No  thanks,  I 
must  be  going  in  a  minute — my  sister  and  some  other 
people " 

His  minute  stretched  to  nearly  ten.  They  talked 
about  the  weather  and  the  city.  Mrs.  O'Beirne  gave 
in  her  opinion  of  both,  and  Anna  hated  her  for  it. 
She  discovered  that  he  had  gray  eyes  and  a  friendly 
smile;  also,  that  in  some  way — she,  rather  fluttered, 
could  not  tell  just  how — he  was  interested  in  her. 
When  he  got  up  to  go — his  leisurely,  loose-jointed 
motions  were  really  awkward — he  asked,  "Are  you 
going  to  be  here  long,  Mrs.  Devin?" 

Anna,  uncertain  of  her  interpretation,  said  only, 
"I  don't  know — perhaps  only  a  few  days." 

"I  hope  I  may  see  you  again?" 

"I  hope  so/'  she  murmured,  giving  him  her  hand. 

"What  long  legs  that  young  man  has!"  observed 
Flora  O'Beirne.  "He's  terribly  homely,  isn't  he? 
He  moves  like  he  was  tied  together  with  twine,  and 
was  afraid  it  would  break." 

Anna  declined  to  smile  at  this  sally.  She  watched 
Dan  and  Pur  cell  walking  together  across  the  floor. 
And  for  the  first  time  she  felt  a  little  dissatisfied  with 

181 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Dan's  appearance.  It  suddenly  struck  her  that  he 
was  too  trig,  too  spruce,  too  dressed  up  rather.  Her 
perceptions  were  exceedingly  keen  for  the  sort  of 
thing  that  differentiated  his  general  look  from  Pur- 
cell's.  She  had  an  immediate  conviction  that  it  was 
far  better  to  look  not  dressed  up  when  you  wore  even 
ing  clothes.  Even  a  tie  slipping  out  of  place  had  its 
merits,  looked  at  in  this  light. 

Dan  came  back  with  a  suggestion. 

"Suppose  we  go  up  to  the  roof-garden?  There 
may  be  a  breath  of  air  up  there." 

Anna  wondered  if  the  suggestion  came  from  Pur- 
cell,  and  hoped  they  should  see  his  party  there;  but 
she  was  disappointed. 

There  were  only  a  few  people  on  the  roof  and  no 
one  that  interested  her.  The  place  itself  was  not  in 
teresting,  either — simply  some  tables  set  under  arches 
of  evergreen,  with  potted  palms  about,  and  red  and 
blue  electric  lights  in  the  greenery.  It  was  rather 
tawdry,  and  much  less  feeble  efforts  at  decoration 
must  have  faded  into  utter  insignificance,  placed  as 
they  were  between  two  great  spectacles:  the  sky, 
where  a  thunder-storm  was  gathering,  and  the  sea 
of  roofs  veiled  in  smoke  which  swirled  in  huge  strange 
shapes,  made  visible  by  a  myriad  earthly  lights. 

The  sullen  canopy  which  had  hidden  the  sky  was 
broken  up  now  into  definite  cloud  forms;  gray  and 
black,  towering  and  ragged;  and  a  full  moon  lit  now 
their  fringes,  now  their  summits,  and  now  was  hidden 
by  some  denser  mass  and  only  illuminated  the  gulfs 
of  air  about  its  edges.  All  was  motion;  below  the  air 
was  stirring,  and  in  that  upper  plane  the  clouds  rose 
and  sank,  melted  and  formed  again,  in  flying  squad- 

182 


THE  FORERUNNER 

rons.  And  now  lightning  began  to  play  in  them,  and 
the  first  distant  roll  of  thunder  was  heard. 

And  still  nearer  the  earth,  clouds  of  black  and  gray 
smoke,  eddying  and  drifting  through  the  glare  of  elec 
tric  lights,  echoed  the  drama  of  the  upper  air.  But 
below  all  this  action,  which  grew  momently  more  con 
fused  and  wilder,  the  eye  found  an  immense  solidity. 
Stretching  away  out  of  the  reach  of  vision  in  every 
direction,  with  an  impression  of  regularity  in  all  its 
unevenness  of  elevation,  dark  or  lit  within  by  an  in 
finity  of  little  sparks,  one  huge,  bare  rectangular 
mass  inexorably  succeeding  another,  the  tremendous 
City  presented  itself,  overwhelming,  crushing,  in  its 
expression  of  man's  labor  and  achievement. 

The  Devins  and  their  guests  stood  at  the  parapet 
for  a  few  moments  looking  down,  and  they  were  all 
silent.  Flora  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"It  makes  you  feel  like  a  bird  on  the  wing,  doesn't 
it?"  she  said,  with  a  little  shiver. 

"It  makes  you  feel  that  you  would  like  to  be  a  win 
ner,"  said  the  Colonel  meditatively. 

Dan  nodded. 

"It  looks  like  a  hard  proposition  to  buck  up 
against,"  he  said.  "But  people  do  break  in." 

"It  makes  you  wish  you  belonged  in  it,  and  didn't 
have  to  break  in,"  Anna  said,  half  to  herself. 

And  her  thoughts  went  back  to  Purcell.  He  looked 
as  though  he  belonged  in  it;  as  though  he  had  never 
had  to  break  into  anything.  .  .  . 

It  was  true.  His  road  had  been  prepared,  smoothed 
by  the  work  of  those  who  had  gone  before.  He  was 
not  one  of  the  laborious  atoms  whose  lives  had  gone 
into  the  building  of  those  reefs  of  stone.  The  freedom 

183 


THE  FORERUNNER 

of  the  city  was  his.  Its  material  solidity  was  what 
he  rested  on.  It  gave  him  ease,  a  calm  and  lordly  air 
of  permanence. 

A  personality  so  sure  of  itself  as  his  makes  its  mark 
anywhere.  It  appealed  strongly  to  Anna's  love  of 
obvious  superiority  to  circumstance,  and  to  her  in 
stinct  of  conservatism.  What  imagination  she  had 
played  about  the  material  goods  of  life  and  made  it 
seem  to  her  a  necessity  to  get  them,  a  virtue  to  keep 
them,  and  the  main  thing  to  be  able  to  make  the  most 
of  them,  in  order  to  get — something  else — perhaps 
the  sort  of  personal  distinction  that  young  Purcell 
had. 

She  wished  to  see  more  of  him.  And  she  pondered 
over  her  brief  talk  with  him,  and  especially  his  part 
ing  words. 

Had  he  meant  that  he  would  come  to  see  her? 


184 


III. 

"VTOT  only  was  this  what  he  meant,  but  he  came 
•^      the  next  afternoon. 

Dan  had  already  started  for  Boston,  in  response  to 
a  telegram  from  the  elder  Purcell.  He  had  given  Anna 
money  enough  for  several  days,  telling  her  that  he 
might  be  gone  that  long,  and  that  as  soon  as  Purcell 
had  given  his  check  in  payment  for  the  stock  he  should 
telegraph  to  Grand  to  send  him  a  thousand  dollars 
on  account.  Then  in  two  or  three  weeks  they — 
Dan  and  Anna — would  get  off  for  Wyoming.  Dan 
whistled  buoyantly  as  he  packed  his  suit-case.  At 
last — at  last!  All  the  weariness  of  those  months  of 
waiting  and  working;  all  those  days  of  disappoint 
ment,  one  upon  another,  when  he  had  come  back 
nervously  exhausted  after  vainly  hurling  himself,  his 
eloquence,  his  energy,  against  the  intrenched,  inert 
might  of  capital  in  its  stronghold;  that  long  siege, 
that  battering  of  a  rock  harder  than  his  copper  at 
Mallory:  all  was  forgotten,  put  behind  him,  in  the 
instant  of  opening  the  telegram.  He  had  won! 
Anna  stood  by,  folding  his  clothes,  handing  him 
things,  listening  to  his  short,  abrupt  sentences,  not 
quite  understanding,  distrustful  of  his  jubilance. 

"But  you  won't  be  gone  long?  Not  more  than 
two  or  three  days?  I  cannot  bear" — a  sob — "to  be 
left  here  alone." 

185 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Now,  now,  of  course  not!  I  shall  undoubtedly  be 
back  by  Monday  or  Tuesday.  You  know  to-morrow's  a 
half-day,  and  then  Sunday — and  I  must  shake  up  our 
people  in  Boston — oh,  yes,  Tuesday  at  latest.  Cheer 
up,  little  girl,  we  shall  have  some  decent  weather  now 
after  this  storm,  and  you'll  feel  better.  I  must  run. 
Write  me  every  day,  the  office  address.  I  shall  be 
down  at  Purcell's  place  to-night,  but  in  Boston  to 
morrow." 

A  quick  embrace,  and  he  was  gone;  taking  a  cab  to 
the  station,  for  it  was  raining  heavily. 

The  hot  wave  had  broken  up  in  a  wild  driving  east 
erly  storm — the  equinoctial.  The  even  gray  sky,  like 
a  huge  sponge  suspended  over  the  island,  seemed  to 
have  sucked  up  all  the  humidity  that  made  life  a  bur 
den,  and  to  be  sending  it  down  again  in  fierce  streams 
cooled  by  the  wind  from  the  sea.  The  city  shivered 
luxuriously  in  its  needle-bath  after  a  week  in  steam. 

Anna,  by  no  means  athletic  enough  to  enjoy  a  direct 
plunge  into  this  elemental  gambol,  sat  at  a  desk  in  the 
reading-room,  writing  a  letter  to  her  mother,  when  a 
bell-boy  came  through  with  the  monotonous  call, 

"Devin — Devin — card  for  Devin "  She  had  a 

momentary  fear,  as  she  beckoned  the  boy,  that  the 
caller  might  be  Flora  O'Beirne,  who  had  parted  from 
her  the  night  before  with  the  assurance  that  she  meant 
to  come  and  see  her;  but  the  size  and  shape  of  the 
card  dispelled  that  idea.  She  had  no  notion,  how 
ever,  till  she  had  read  the  name,  that  Purcell  could 
really  be  calling  on  her;  and  if  the  boy  had  not  said 
"for  Mrs.  Devin/'  she  would  have  supposed  Purcell 
must  be  wanting  to  see  Dan,  who  had  met  him  sev 
eral  times,  in  connection  with  his  father's  affairs. 

186 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Not  many  months  ago  Anna  would  easily  have  ac 
counted  for  the  haste  of  any  man  to  see  her.  But 
since  she  had  measured  her  own  attractions  and  abil 
ities  against  those  of  women  like  that  one  with  the 
water-lilies,  she  had  grown  a  little  humble.  True, 
she  still  thought  that  she  had  at  least  the  elements 
of  success,  the  raw  material  in  abundance — but  she 
recognized  that  it  was  raw.  She  had  thought  a  great 
deal  about  the  water-lily  lady  since  last  night,  going 
over  in  her  mind  every  recollected  detail  of  the  other's 
appearance  and  manner,  trying  to  imagine  the  process 
by  which  these  had  been  evolved,  trying  to  account 
for  the  effect  they  produced.  In  spite  of  that  grace 
ful  creature's  individual  charm,  it  was  as  a  type,  a 
representative,  that  she  poignantly  interested  Anna. 
Behind  her  was  the  whole  world  of  power,  of  achieve 
ment,  of  repose  in  possession — that  world  which,  in 
different  ways,  both  Anna  Devin  and  her  husband 
felt  to  be  set  impassively  against  them,  their  aims, 
their  desires. 

Purcell,  too,  was  of  this  world.  That  the  water- 
lily  lady  was  his  sister  Anna  had  instantly  known 
when  last  night  he  had  spoken  of  her;  there  was  just 
enough  resemblance  to  need  this  pointing  out.  Pur- 
cell  knew,  doubtless,  many  women  as  charming  and 
as  much  of  his  world,  who  were  not  his  sisters.  What 
then  brought  him  here  if  he  had  not  been  really  struck 
by  her,  and  she  could  not  think  he  had  been?  Per 
haps  he  thought  her  a  freak  from  the  West,  something 
outlandish,  amusing! 

She  gathered  up  the  sheets  of  her  unfinished  letter, 
and,  sending  the  boy  back  with  a  message  to  Purcell, 
went  up  to  her  room  to  get  an  ink-stain  off  her  finger, 

187 


THE  FORERUNNER 

and  to  make  sure  that  her  appearance  was  as  good 
as,  under  the  circumstances,  it  could  be.  Self-in 
spection  gave  her,  as  usual,  more  confidence.  Af 
ter  all,  it  could  not  be  denied  that  she  was  very 
handsome,  and  that  her  height  gave  her  a  certain 
command.  And  her  brown  silk  dress,  if  not  in  the 
latest  mode,  had  its  good  points. 

Her  appearance  certainly  interested  Purcell.  He 
liked  big  women,  and  admired  solid  fairness,  placidity 
that  might  even  be  stolid.  But  his  visit  had  another 
motive  besides  the  impression  that  Anna  had  made 
on  him — a  motive  which  he  admitted  to  himself 
humorously.  His  sister,  Margaret  Vaughan — energy 
rather  than  humor  was  her  strong  point — had  put  it 
thus : 

"Nick,  can't  we  find  out  something  about  these 
people?  I  don't  doubt  in  the  least  that  father  will 
lose  a  lot  of  money." 

"Well,  very  likely  he  will.  But  he's  old  enough 
to  look  out  for  himself,  my  dear,"  Nicholas  had  re 
sponded  indifferently. 

"But  don't  you  care  whether  he  is  swindled  or  not?" 
protested  Margaret.  "You  know  you  said  that  if 
he  went  into  business  again  at  his  time  of  life  he  prob 
ably  would  be.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  he  probably  will  be.  But  we  can't  help  it. 
If  he  wants  to  throw  his  money  over  the  fence  that's 
his  business.  And  you  know  nothing  would  make 
him  do  it  quicker  than  the  suspicion  that  someone 
was  trying  to  interfere." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  sighed  Margaret.  "But  it 
would  be  rather  amusing  to  find  out  about  them,  at 
least.  You  know  them  a  little,  don't  you?" 

188 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  I've  met  Devin.  The  light-haired  girl  is  his 
wife.  They  seem  pretty  crude." 

"She  is  handsome.  You  might  go  and  see  her 
and " 

"And  ask  her  about  her  husband's  business?  Why 
don't  you  go,  Madge?  You're  so  much  abler  than 
I " 

"Well,  I  didn't  mean  exactly  that.  I  think  I  will 
go  to  see  her  when  I  get  back  from  Marshbrook.  It 
will  be  interesting  to  see  what  I  can  find  out." 

Nicholas  laughed.  "I'll  warn  her  that  you're 
coming,"  he  said.  "Indefatigable  Madge!  You 
won't  rest  till  you  have  the  whole  story  of  her  life." 

"It  would  be  easy  for  you  to  get  it,"  Margaret  said. 
"I  wish  people  confided  in  me  half  as  much  as  they 
do  in  you." 

"They  would,  probably,  if  you  weren't  so  much 
interested,"  said  Nicholas  idly. 

In  fact  he  was  used  to  confidences,  being  more 
disinterested,  though  certainly  no  less  interested 
than,  for  example,  Margaret.  It  was  that  quality 
of  his  interest  in  life — a  little  detached,  yet  sym 
pathetic,  intelligent,  and  above  all  kindly — that  at 
tached  to  him  many  very  different  people — those  who 
could  give  him  nothing  except  affection,  as  well  as 
those  who  enlarged  his  experience.  Experience,  as 
expressed  in  personal  relationships,  was  really  what 
he  cared  for  in  life.  But  his  interest  had  an  unusual 
scope.  It  recognized  the  aesthetic  value  of  externals, 
it  appreciated  beauty  in  any  form,  whether  of  nature 
or  art;  but  it  was  deepest  in  the  most  elemental 
things,  in  the  simple,  the  universal  emotions  on  which 
life  rests. 

189 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Early  ill-health  had  given  him  a  philosophic  turn, 
had  predisposed  him  to  reflection  rather  than  action, 
and  made  him  nervously  more  impressionable,  more 
leceptive.  He  was  a  man  of  practically  no  prejudices, 
but  of  definite  dislikes.  And  one  of  the  things  which 
he  disliked  most  was  the  attitude  of  caring  for  money, 
actively  seeking  it  or  worrying  about  it. 

He  could  see  no  compensating  advantage  in  the 
necessity  of  earning  one's  daily  bread;  to  his  imagi 
nation,  it  was  a  more  attractive  mode  of  life  to  beg 
it,  or  even  to  steal  it.  He  himself  had  always  had 
rather  more  than  enough;  but  he  was  convinced 
that  it  would  be  infinitely  easier  to  reduce  his  needs 
to  the  vanishing  point  than  to  try  to  increase  his 
means.  This,  however,  was  but  theory,  and  it  was 
not  likely  ever  to  be  proven  whether  he  could  give 
up  the  present  conditions  of  his  life — independence, 
freedom,  and  ease.  His  few  thousands  a  year  in 
rents,  left  him  by  his  mother,  were  safe,  unless  a  tidal 
wave,  or  an  earthquake,  or  her  own  mass,  should 
sink  New  York  in  the  ocean.  And  for  himself  Nicho 
las  wanted  nothing  more. 

The  prospect  of  his  father's  millions  was  by  no 
means  so  sure,  and  Nicholas  was  rather  disposed  to 
exaggerate  its  unsureness.  His  pride  in  any  case 
would  have  refused  to  take  explicit  account  of  that 
prospect;  and  he  found  a  certain  relief  in  dismissing 
it  altogether,  in  putting  before  Margaret  the  strong 
probability  that  their  father  would  either  in  his 
crabbed  old  age  dissipate  the  fortune  he  had  painfully 
amassed;  or  would  leave  it  to  charity,  or  perhaps 
even  marry  again. 

Margaret  Vaughan  rebelled  strongly  against  this 
190 


THE  FORERUNNER 

view  of  it.  To  her  their  inheritance  was  an  actual 
possession,  and  it  was  theirs  by  right.  She  consid 
ered  that  her  father  had  no  right  to  deprive  them  of 
it,  and  that,  since  his  judgment  was  very  likely  now 
impaired  by  age,  it  was  their  business  to  prevent  him 
from  doing  a  wrong.  Margaret  cared  frankly  for 
money,  and  wanted  a  great  deal  more  than  she  had ; 
she  was  now  maintaining  an  expensive  establishment 
and  a  second  husband  who  had  a  love  for  sport. 
From  her  first  husband  she  had  been  divorced,  after 
four  years  of  married  life,  and  had  married  the  sec 
ond  a  month  afterward.  Her  present  object  in  life 
was  the  happiness  of  George  Vaughan,  and  George 
was  rather  extravagant. 

Nicholas  was  very  fond  of  his  sister.  The  unhap- 
piness  of  her  first  marriage  had  been  a  source  of  mel 
ancholy  to  him  as  poignant  as  his  father's  disappoint 
ment  in  them  both.  Now  that  Madge,  poor  girl, 
was  getting  some  enjoyment  out  of  life,  Nicholas 
was  correspondingly  relieved.  He  would  have  done 
a  good  deal  for  Madge  that  he  wouldn't  do  for  himself. 

And  since  the  event  that  he  had  often  predicted  to 
her  now  seemed  in  a  fair  way  of  coming  to  pass,  Nicho 
las  could  not  but  be  interested,  on  her  account  and 
his  father's,  if  not  his  own.  Josiah  Purcell  was  about 
to  invest  a  good  deal  of  money— Nicholas  did  not 
know  exactly  how  much — in  a  scheme  which  might 
be  fraudulent  and  would  doubtless  be  a  failure.  He 
was  investing  practically  on  the  word  of  Daniel 
Devin,  whose  eagerness,  eloquence  and  absorption 
in  his  business  were  all  rather  against  him,  with 
Nicholas.  Nicholas,  on  the  two  or  three  occasions 
when  they  had  met,  had  thought  him  rather  too  talk- 

191 


THE  FORERUNNER 

ative,  too  plausible,  too  enthusiastic.  He  did  not 
readily  see  how  a  man  could  put  so  much  tempera 
ment  into  a  matter  of  dollars  and  cents  unless  he 
were  presenting  a  proposition  that  needed  gilding. 
To  be  sure,  Devin  had  been  talking  to  his  father,  not 
to  him,  and  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  fact  that 
Nicholas  was  bored.  Yet  he  confessed  to  a  definite 
impression  made  by  Devin;  and  now  to  one,  equally 
definite  and  less  doubtful,  of  Mrs.  Devin.  She  was 
extremely  handsome,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of 
that.  And  she  was  young,  and  in  some  way  unhappy. 
That  was  enough  to  a  man  interested  in  women.  Al 
together  Nicholas  felt  he  had  reason  to  stay  over  an 
other  day  in  town,  though  he  had  intended  to  go  back 
to  Lenox  with  Bella  Buccleugh  and  her  husband. 

It  was  with  a  charitable  eye,  though  one  not  wholly 
single  to  her  personality,  that  Nicholas  studied  Anna. 
He  thought  it  very  likely  she  might  be  the  wife  of  an 
adventurer;  very  likely  that  her  lack  of  ease,  her  air 
of  repression,  might  be  due  as  much  to  a  sense  of  a 
false  position  as  to  her  inexperience.  For  there  was 
nothing  of  the  adventuress  about  her.  With  all  her 
stiffness  and  reserve  she  was  somehow  as  simple  and 
forlorn  as  a  lost  child. 

She  confessed  to  him  indeed  that  she  felt  rather 
lost  in  New  York— that  she  found  the  city  " terrible" ; 
and,  immediately  alarmed  at  having  shown  feeling, 
added:  "I  mean,  it  is  so  big  and  so  much  like  a  ma 
chine.  It's  too  big  to  stop.  It  keeps  on  grinding, 
and  you  see  people  all  the  time  being  ground  up  in  it 
—or  so  it  seemed  to  me.  I  never  saw  so  many  miser 
able  people  in  my  life  as  I've  seen  this  summer." 

Purcell  was  sympathetic.  He  had  never  been 
192 


THE  FORERUNNER 

close  enough  to  the  ground  himself  to  feel  that  jarring 
of  the  machinery,  that  vague  fear  that  one's  self 
might  be  caught  and  crushed  in  it — but  as  to  miser 
able  people,  yes,  he  knew  what  she  must  have  seen. 

"Oh,  the  summer — yes,  it  is  terrible.  All  those 
poor  wretches  swarming  into  the  parks  and  streets 
— and  not  caring  how  uncomfortable  they  make  us 
by  the  sight  of  them!"  Again  Anna  felt  the  kindli 
ness  of  his  smile,  the  personal  glance  that  seemed  to 
appreciate  in  friendly  fashion  herself,  her  words, 
looks,  feelings. 

"Yes,  and  this  is  the  reason,  I  think,  why  New  York 
seems  terrible  to  me — that  it  seems  like  a  place  meant 
only  for  rich  people,  that  only  the  rich  can  enjoy — 
and  yet  almost  all  I  have  seen  in  it  are  poor."  Anna 
was  pleased  at  having  thought  this  out  so  definitely, 
and  went  on,  expanding  a  little:  "I  think  it  must  be 
the  worst  place  in  the  world  for  poor  people.  Why, 
where  I  come  from  they  can  breathe  in  comfort,  at 
least!  They  can  live  out-doors,  without  dropping 
dead  or  fainting  from  the  heat,  as  I've  seen  people 
do  here.  I  wonder  why  they  all  stay  here." 

"They  have  to,  I  suppose — they  work  here,  or 
they're  dependent  on  those  that  do." 

"Yes,"  said  Anna,  coloring  a  little  and  remember 
ing  her  own  summer. 

"But  it  is  over  now,  the  sort  of  misery  you've  seen," 
Purcell  went  on  quickly.  "You'll  see  the  city  now 
in  a  better  mood — waking  up,  beginning  to  live  and 
enjoy  itself.  That  is,  if  you're  to  be  here  into  Octo 
ber — I  hope  you  are." 

"I  don't  know — probably  not.  It  depends  on  Mr. 
Devin's  business." 

193 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"You'll  be  glad  of  that,  I  suppose?  Getting  back 
to  your  home,  I  mean." 

"Oh— I  don't  know,"  Anna  looked  blank.  "You 
see,  we're  not  going  back  to  California,  and  that's 
all  the  place  I  know  really." 

"Oh,  I  thought "   ' 

"Mr.  Devin's  business  is  in  Wyoming  now.  He  is 
interested  in  copper-mining  there — as  I  suppose  you 
know." 

Purcell  smiled  amiably.  "Yes,  I'd  heard  some 
thing  of  it.  I  met  Mr.  Devin  two  or  three  times,  in 
my  father's  office,  and  they  were  talking  business — 
but  I  can't  lay  claim  to  any  very  definite  ideas  on 
the  subject  either  of  copper-mining  or  of  Wyoming. 
Is  it  a  wild  country?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so — except  the  climate.  I've 
never  been  there,  you  see." 

"Oh,  really!"  Purcell  was  genuinely  surprised, 
and  interested  in  straightening  this  out.  Where 
had  she  been,  then,  he  wondered.  She  couldn't  be 
over  twenty,  and  couldn't  have  been  married  long. 
And  he  had  an  idea  that  Devin  had  been  mining  cop 
per  for  years. 

"No,  Mr.  Devin  thought  the  winter  too  severe  for 
me.  At  Mallory,  where  he  has  been,  the  snow  is  fif 
teen  and  twenty  feet  deep  almost  all  the  year.  It 
was  just  melted  off  when  he  left  in  June,  and  has  al 
ready  begun  again." 

"That  sounds  rather  Arctic."  Purcell  was  not 
going  to  try  to  pump  Anna  about  her  husband  or  his 
business.  It  was  the  personal  side  of  her  marriage 
that  his  questions  concerned.  "Shall  you  like  going 
into  it?" 

194 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  again.  "But  we  shall 
not  be  at  Mallory.  That's  on  top  of  the  mountain, 
and  in  the  valley  there's  a  town,  River  City,  where 
we  shall  live,  I  suppose." 

The  prospect  certainly  roused  no  enthusiasm  in  her. 
When  her  face  was  not  animated,  when  her  heavy 
eyelids  drooped,  she  looked  melancholy.  And  she 
was  not  the  melancholy  type.  Her  face,  he  thought, 
was  made  to  express  content,  well-being.  Now  there 
was  a  touch  of  sullenness  in  its  naive  dissatisfaction. 

Anna  almost  instantly  became  conscious  of  that 
look,  and  controlled  herself.  Purcell's  questions 
had  forced  her  to  think  of  her  immediate  prospects, 
and  so  to  betray  how  little  she  liked  them;  and  yet 
she  was  glad  he  had  put  them,  for  after  all,  what  else 
could  they  have  talked  about?  She  did  not  feel 
equal  to  asking  questions  about  him.  But  she  was 
flattered  by  his  apparent  interest  in  her. 

"River  City,  you  know,"  she  went  on  hurriedly, 
"is  where  they're  going  to  build  the  smelter." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I  know  what  a  smelter  is.  But 
tell  me,  what  shall  you  do  at  River  City?" 

"Well,  I  can  hardly  tell  till  I  get  there."  She 
laughed  at  that,  and  he  thought  her  very  attractive. 
"I  shall  have  a  house,  I  suppose.  And  a  piano, 
though  I  suppose  no  chance  really  to  study  there. 
Naturally  there  wouldn't  be  any  good  teacher  in  a 
little  village  like  that.  I  shall  have  to  go  on  by  my 
self."  ' 

Here  was  something  positive,  at  last.  He  had 
begun  to  think  she  was  all  negations. 

"That's  something  you  care  a  great  deal  for — 
music?" 

195 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  yes!"  Anna  spoke  with  all  her  natural 
energy  and  impulsiveness.  "I  was  studying  for  the 
concert  stage  when  I  was  married.  I  had  sung  in 
church  choirs  for  two  years.  I  had  a  good  teacher 
in  Los  Angeles,  and  she  was  very  ambitious  for  me. 
I  am  eager  to  go  on.  It  has  really  been  the  worst 
part  of  the  summer  here  that  I  couldn't  have  a  piano. 
There  wasn't  room.  And  we  were  expecting  to  go 
from  day  to  day " 

She  checked  herself,  rather  aghast.  Why  was  she 
telling  such  things  to  a  man  with  whom  she  was  talk 
ing  really  for  the  first  time?  How,  in  spite  of  his 
quiet,  attentive  face  and  observant  manner,  could 
he  care  to  hear  them?  He  was  probably  bored. 

But  he  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  A  woman  to  in 
terest  him  need  not  be  clever;  she  need  only  be  genu 
ine  and  frank,  and  she  was  sure  to  have  something 
to  tell  him.  His  intimacies,  and  all  his  friendships, 
too,  were  intimate,  had  been  mainly  in  the  two  strata 
— the  top  and  the  bottom — where  genuineness  and 
frankness  are  in  demand  and  frequent.  Anna  he 
judged  to  belong,  by  training  at  least,  to  the  between, 
the  middle  class;  which  is  too  much  absorbed  in  the 
struggle  with  material  things  to  cultivate  its  emotions, 
and  too  much  bound  by  convention  to  confess  them 
freely.  But  he  judged  her  also  to  be  genuine,  and 
thought  she  would  be  frank,  if  she  had  not  some  out 
side  reason  for  trying  to  hold  her  tongue. 

In  spite  of  her  stately  figure  and  some  signs  of  ex 
perience  in  her  face,  she  still  had  a  certain  child-like 
quality.  And  she  had  the  bloom  and  freshness  of 
a  child.  As  she  sat  facing  the  window — Purcell,  on 
the  tufted  window-seat,  had  his  back  to  the  gray  pane 

196 


THE   FORERUNNER 

streaming  with  water,  which  blurred  out  the  Avenue 
from  view — he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  face 
which  needed  less  to  be  managed.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  whose  honest  robust  beauty  is  a  con 
stant  quantity.  Purcell  much  preferred  that  kind, 
as  opposed  to  the  gaslight  beauty,  which  is  there  in 
a  favoring  light  and  air  even  bewilderingly,  and  gone 
like  a  spell  dissolved  in  the  gray  morning.  And  she 
blushed,  too,  charmingly — with  a  completeness  and 
helplessness  that  was  appealing. 

"I  wish  I  could  hear  you  sing,"  he  said — at  random, 
for  he  didn't  wish  it,  music  being  one  thing  in  which 
he  had  no  love  for  the  amateur.  "But  at  least  there's 
one  thing  that  may  bring  you  back  to  New  York 
some  day.  I  suppose  New  York's  the  half-way  sta 
tion  on  the  road  to  Europe,  for  the  student,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  think  I  should  be  satisfied  with  New  York!" 
said  Anna  fervently.  "If  I  could  have  a  whole  win 
ter  here,  to  study  with  a  really  good  teacher " 

something  like  a  gasp  of  longing  gave  her  pause. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  will  have  it,  since  you  evi 
dently  want  it  very  much,"  Purcell  said  softly,  and 
not  without  an  obscure  intent  that  had  a  certain 
malice,  toward  Devin,  in  it.  "People  are  apt  to  get 
what  they  determine  to  get,  I  think." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  She  gazed  at  him  intently, 
rather  sombrely.  "I  don't.  People  may  determine 
to  do  things  and  fail."  She  was  thinking  now  of 
Dan. 

"Yes,  they  may.  But  if  they  have  will  enough — 
and  strength  enough  to  assert  themselves — and  are 
willing  to  make  sacrifices — I  think  success  is  pretty 
sure." 

197 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Anna  looked  absently  over  his  shoulder  at  the  win 
dow  and  the  torrent  flung  against  it  by  the  wind. 

"Yes,  if  they  make  sacrifices/'  she  murmured. 
"But  supposing  they  sacrifice  somebody  beside  them 
selves "  she  looked  a  bitter  question. 

"The  end  may  be  worth  it/'  Purcell  said  medi 
tatively.  "I  suppose  each  of  us  has  to  judge  of 
that,  at  one  time  or  another.  And  then — one  can't 
always  be  sure  that  what  seems  like  sacrificing  some 
body  else  isn't  the  best  thing  for  them— for  the 
somebody  else,  I  mean." 

"No,"  said  Anna,  adapting  this  sophistry,  "just  as 
you  can't  be  sure  that  what  seems  the  best  thing  for 
somebody  else  isn't  sacrificing  them." 

She  was  not  trying  to  be  clever — she  was  be 
ing  autobiographic! — Purcell  said  to  himself  as  he 
watched  her  downcast  face.  But  again  she  made  a 
visible  effort  over  herself. 

"I  watched  your  sister  last  night,"  she  said.  "At 
least  I  suppose  it  was  your  sister — the  one  with  dark 
hair.  How  beautiful  she  is!" 

"Beautiful?  She  isn't  thought  so,  generally — 
though  she  does  make  her  impression,  whatever  you 
name  it." 

"Oh,  I  call  her  beautiful.  I  was  quite  fascinated. 
I  stared  at  her  all  through  dinner!" 

"She  was  interested  in  you.  She  spoke  last  night 
about  wanting  to  meet  you.  Perhaps  when  she 
comes  through  again " 

"Oh,  I  should  like  it  very  much — if  we're  here " 

said  Anna  rather  oppressed. 

"She's  gone  down  to  Marshbrook  to-day,  to  be  with 
my  father,"  Purcell  went  on.  "He's  been  a  little  bit 

198 


THE   FORERUNNER 

ill  for  a  few  days,  and  whenever  he's  that  way  he 
wants  one  of  us  with  him.  He  likes  to  have  my  sister 
look  after  him  at  home,  and  to  have  me  around  when 
he  has  any  business — that's  the  way  I  happened  to 
meet  your  husband.  At  other  times,  though,  he 
gladly  dispenses  with  us.  At  his  age,  you  know,  peo 
ple  begin  to  want  to  be  independent." 

"Then  I  suppose  Mr.  Devin  and  your  sister  will 
meet."  Anna  was  struck  by  this.  "For  he  has  gone 
down  there  to-day .  Your  father  telegraphed  for  him . ' ' 

Nicholas  was  struck  too. 

"Has  he  really?    Then  they  will,  no  doubt." 

"Yes,  for  Mr.  Devin  was  to  stay  overnight  there." 

"Ah,  I  hope  he'll  be  comfortable,"  said  Purcell. 
"My  sister  hates  the  place — all  marshes  and  midges. 
Now  and  then  she  threatens  to  burn  the  old  house 
down — it's  been  in  the  family  for  ages,  and  my  father 
was  born  there,  so  he  clings  to  it — and  Madge  says 
he  evidently  intends  she  shall  die  there." 

Then  he  rose  with  a  fair  show  of  reluctance. 

"I've  got  to  go  up  to  Lenox  for  a  day  or  so,  to  look 
after  some  guests  of  Madge's  till  she  gels  back,"  he 
said.  "But  may  I  try  and  find  you  again  after  that?" 

"I  hope  you  will.  But  we  may  go  at  any  time.  I 
suppose  I  shall  know  when  Mr.  Devin  gets  back  Tues 
day."  She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  a  regretful  look. 

"I  hope  you  won't  go.  At  least  till  I've  seen  you 
again."  Nicholas  meant  that  speech  with  a  whim 
sical  completeness.  He  hoped  that  Devin  would  not 
immediately  get  what  he  wanted  to  get  from  his 
father,  and  so — since  his  going  evidently  hinged  on 
that  transaction — that  he  would  not  be  able  to  carry 
off  this  handsome  girl  into  the  wilds  of  Wyoming. 

199 


IV. 

TP\AN  reached  Marshbrook  and  The  Homestead  in 
•^T-  time  for  a  late  dinner.  A  closed  carriage  met 
him  at  the  station,  from  which  Mr.  Purcell's  place  was 
distant  about  half  a  mile.  Dan  could  not  make  out 
much  of  the  village,  through  which  he  was  driven  rap 
idly,  except  that  it  seemed  to  consist  of  a  few  stores 
near  the  station  and  of  a  straggling  line  of  low  houses, 
each  in  its  fenced  yard,  on  the  side  of  the  road  which 
curved  round  the  shore  of  a  little  bay  or  cove.  It  was 
still  raining,  though  not  like  the  deluge  in  which  he  had 
left  New  York,  but  the  wind  was  stronger.  It  rushed 
in,  fresh  and  salt,  straight  off  the  sea,  and  drove  the 
rain  obliquely  before  it,  blurring  the  carriage  window 
on  that  side,  so  that  he  could  only  guess  at  the  out 
lines  of  house,  tree  and  shore.  But  he  heard  the 
wash  of  little  waves  on  a  pebbly  beach,  and  farther 
off  the  roar  of  a  long  surf.  Soon  he  had  passed  the 
little  beach,  and  then  the  swishing  of  reeds  moved 
by  the  wind  above  and  the  water  below  accompanied 
him  the  rest  of  the  way,  except  for  one  stretch,  where 
on  a  kind  of  low  plateau  a  group  of  pine-trees  grew. 
The  road  ran  beneath  the  pines,  whose  perpetual  note 
was  deepened  to  an  echo  of  the  surf,  then  branched 
off  to  the  right,  and  followed  the  bank  of  an  inlet 
which  was  half  marsh.  At  the  end  of  this  inlet  stood 
The  Homestead,  so  named  by  Josiah  Purcell's  long- 
dead  wife. 

200 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Its  long,  low,  irregular  front  looked  gloomy  enough 
to  Dan,  for  the  shutters  of  all  the  eastern  windows 
were  closed  against  the  storm.  But  once  inside,  the 
impression  was  very  different.  The  big  square  hall, 
belonging  to  the  main  new  part  built  on  by  Mrs.  Pur- 
cell,  was  in  fact  the  most  cheerful  spot  in  the  house, 
at  least  when  a  fire  burned,  as  now,  in  the  enormous 
fireplace  at  the  back  which  held  six-foot  logs  with 
ease.  The  dark  polished  floor  and  wainscoting,  and 
surfaces  of  the  high-backed  seats  on  either  side,  as 
well  as  the  brass  of  the  tall  andirons  and  of  the  candle 
sticks  on  the  narrow  shelf  above  the  wainscoting,  re 
flected  the  blaze  so  as  to  fill  the  hall  with  a  red  glow, 
dazzling  to  one  entering  from  the  dark. 

A  grave  butler  had  opened  the  door,  and  a  man  in 
livery  was  at  the  step,  as  the  carriage  drove  up,  to 
take  Dan's  suit-case.  In  the  hall  Dan  was  relieved 
of  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  was  led  up  immediately 
to  a  bedroom  on  the  second  floor. 

"Mrs.  Vaughan  told  me  to  say,  sir,  that  dinner  will 
be  served  as  soon  as  you  are  ready/'  the  man  mur 
mured. 

"All  right — I'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  Dan  said. 

He  threw  off  his  coat,  and  looking  about  the  large, 
low-ceiled  room,  saw  that  a  curtained  doorway  led  to 
a  dressing-room.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  bring 
his  evening-clothes,  nor  did  it  now  that  they  were 
called  for.  When  he  emerged,  he  found  that  every 
thing  he  had  brought  had  been  unpacked  and  neatly 
disposed  of,  and  that  his  coat  had  been  brushed  and 
hung  on  a  chair;  and  he  was  further  relieved  to  find, 
also,  that  his  attendant  had  vanished.  The  quaint 
old-fashioned  air  of  the  room  struck  Dan  agreeably, 

201 


THE   FORERUNNER 

as  he  took  it  in  while  brushing  his  hair.  The  wood 
work  was  all  white.  There  was  a  huge  four-poster 
bed  of  mahogany  carved  all  over,  and  the  other  fur 
niture  was  in  corresponding  odd  shapes.  A  fire 
burned  in  a  grate,  and  over  the  mantel-piece  hung 
three  miniatures  in  oval  black  frames.  This  room 
too  was  lit  by  candles,  in  old  silver  holders.  Dan's 
toilet  consumed  not  more  than  ten  minutes.  Mechan 
ically  he  felt  for  his  watch,  when  he  was  dressed,  and 
was  rather  irritated  in  remembering  the  reason  of  its 
absence.  But  the  tall  grandfather's  clock  in  one  cor 
ner  of  the  hall  told  him  the  time  as  he  descended.  It 
was  chiming  eight.  Dan  had  snatched  a  buffet  meal 
in  Boston,  but  he  was  now  perfectly  ready  for  an 
other.  He  was  ready  also  to  confront  Mrs.  Vaughan, 
though  he  had  no  idea  who  she  might  be.  And  when 
the  lady,  who  was  leaning  against  the  back  of  one  of 
the  settles  and  looking  into  the  fire,  came  forward  to 
greet  him,  Dan  had  no  recollection  of  having  seen  her 
before.  He  had  noticed  her  the  night  before  at  din 
ner,  but  then  she  wore  a  hat  and  now  she  was  without 
one,  and  also  she  was  not  the  type  that  impressed 
Dan.  He  now  thought  her  very  pretty,  however. 
She  wore  a  long  white  ruffled  dress,  cut  square  a  little 
below  the  throat,  and  with  sleeves  to  the  elbow. 
About  her  throat  was  a  black  velvet  ribbon  with  a 
gold  locket,  and  she  had  heavy  gold  bracelets  on  her 
wrists.  Her  hair  was  massed  low  in  a  thick  knot. 
If  Dan  had  been  more  learned,  he  might  have  thought 
she  had  got  herself  up  to  match  the  house.  As  it  was, 
his  eyes  simply  did  homage  to  her  as  a  charming 
woman.  And  evidently  she  meant  to  be  charming 
to  him. 

202 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"I'm  so- sorry  my  father  isn't  able  to  welcome  you 
himself,  and  he  is  sorry/'  she  said,  smiling  at  Dan — 
their  eyes  were  on  a  level — as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
"But  I've  persuaded  him  to  stay  in  bed  till  to-mor 
row,  when  we  think  he'll  be  all  right.  Probably, 
though,  he  would  have  come  down  in  spite  of  me,  ex 
cept  that  he  is  so  hoarse  he  can't  speak." 

Her  manner  indicated  that  this  illness  might  be 
taken  very  lightly,  and  accordingly  Dan  only  said, 
"I'm  sorry.  But  you're  quite  right  not  to  let  him 
get  up." 

"Then,  if  you'll  resign  yourself  to  dining  alone  with 
me — I  should  think  you  must  want  something  after 
your  journey." 

"I  shan't  mind  it,"  Dan  said  with  his  frank 
laugh. 

The  butler  appeared  at  one  of  the  four  square  door 
ways  opening  into  the  hall  and  announced  dinner, 
and  Dan  and  the  lady  walked  side  by  side  into  an 
other  large  square  room,  all  dark  polished  wood  and 
dark  tapestry.  The  inevitable  fire  glowed  here  un 
der  a  chimney-piece  reaching  to  the  ceiling.  Op 
posite,  a  mahogany  sideboard,  towering  up  nearly  as 
high,  was  covered  with  silver  pieces,  each  of  which 
reflected  in  miniature  the  whole  room  with  the  flame 
at  the  heart  of  it.  Cupboards  and  cabinets  in  the 
obscurer  corners  sent  out  occasional  gleams,  and  the 
round  table  with  its  nasturtiums  and  yellow  candle- 
shades  and  its  two  places  laid  near,  one  another, 
looked  oddly  isolated  and  intimate  in  the  centre  of 
the  broad  floor. 

"I  saw  you  last  night,"  Mrs.  Vaughan  began,  as 
they  sat  down.  "We  were  at  the  next  table  at  din- 

203 


THE  FORERUNNER 

ner,  don't  you  remember?  And  we  all  fell  in  love 
with  your  wife.  She  is  beautiful,  isn't  she?" 

"/  think  she  is,"  Dan  admitted.  "But  she  tells 
me  I'm  not  much  of  a  judge.  She  fell  in  love,  as  you 
call  it,  with  you  too." 

'Then  we  ought  certainly  to  meet  some  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Vaughan,  laughing.  (Honest  man,  she  reflected, 
he  told  his  wife  how  much  handsomer  she  is  than  I, 
and  she  talked  clothes  to  him.)  "Are  you  going  to 
keep  her  in  New  York  much  longer?" 

"I  hope  not,  this  time.  I'm  very  anxious  to  get 
back  to  Wyoming.  But  she  has  made  me  promise 
her  a  winter  in  New  York  as  soon  as  we  can  manage 
it.  I  hope  it  will  be  soon,  on  her  account." 

"She  likes  the  East,  then?" 

"Well,  she  thinks  she  would  like  to  live  here  event 
ually.  She  wants  to  study  music.  She  has  a  very 
fine  voice,  and  she  thinks  there  are  no  facilities  in  the 
West  for  cultivating  it." 

"Oh,  she  sings  too!  Well,  she  is  right,  I  suppose, 
about  studying  here.  But  tell  me  more  about  her. 
Is  she  a  type  of  the  Wyoming  women?" 

"Wyoming?  She  never  saw  it,  except  from  a  car- 
window.  She's  a  Californian — never  was  out  of  her 
native  State  till  this  trip  East." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  had  lived  in  California." 

She  appeared  wonderfully  interested,  Dan  thought, 
in  his  wife,  himself,  and  his  doings.  Her  large,  clear, 
greenish  eyes  were  fastened  on  him  inquisitively.  She 
leaned  a  little  toward  him,  her  head  bent,  in  an  at 
titude  of  keen  attention.  In  willing  to  express  her 
interest,  she  was  overacting  it  a  little,  and  Dan  was 
slightly  puzzled.  However,  he  responded;  he  could 

204 


THE   FORERUNNER 

not  well  help  it;  and  prompted  by  her  frequent  ques 
tions,  he  found  himself  telling  her  something  about 
California,  and  a  good  deal  about  Wyoming.  Once 
set  going  on  the  subject  that  occupied  his  mind,  he 
talked  freely.  He  ceased  to  notice  Mrs.  Vaughan's 
posing,  and  presently,  as  she  was  really  struck  by 
what  he  was  saying,  she  ceased  to  pose,  sat  upright 
and  quiet,  and  simply  listened.  The  dinner  was  very 
good  and  rather  long;  but  Dan,  always  abstemious, 
early  ceased  to  think  about  what  he  was  eating,  and 
his  glass  of  claret,  which  he  had  half  filled  with  water, 
stood  untouched  until,  with  a  large  gesture  intended 
to  indicate  the  sweep  of  country  comprehended  in 
his  project,  he  knocked  it  off  on  the  floor.  This  ac 
cident  gave  him  only  an  instant's  pause.  Fortunately 
Mrs.  Vaughan's  dress  swept  out  its  transparent  white 
frills  on  the  other  side  of  her  chair,  and  so  escaped; 
and  after  assuring  himself  of  this,  Dan  went  on. 

The  mines  and  their  prospects;  the  certainty  that 
they  would  pay  when  the  smelter  was  built;  the  cer 
tainty  that  the  thing  would  be  a  bonanza  if  the  rail 
road  was  built :  Dan  had  gone  over  this  field  so  often, 
had  so  often  displayed  its  every  detail  to  an  auditor 
lukewarm  or  cold,  covertly  or  openly  sceptical,  that 
now  he  could  only  be  moved  to  do  it  again  by  either  a 
definite  practical  prospect,  or  by  the  quality  of  per 
sonal  sympathy  which  a  feminine  listener  is  more  apt 
to  have.  Margaret  Vaughan  was  very  good  at  pre 
tending  to  be  interested  in  people,  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  her  casual  interest  was  diffused  over  a  remarkably 
wide  superficies;  but  she  could  not  simulate  sym 
pathy,  and  she  had  it  for  very  few  people  or  things. 
Dan  somehow  had  managed  to  stir  some  real  feeling 

205 


THE  FORERUNNER 

in  her.  He  was  a  new  type,  and  so  mildly  exciting; 
but  by  the  time  he  had  begun  to  make  a  map  of  the 
Grand  River  valley,  so  that  she  could  understand  just 
why  and  where  the  railroad  should  go  in,  she  was  sure 
she  liked  him.  Margaret  Vaughan  herself  had  a  sur 
plus  of  energy  which  she  was  generally  at  a  loss  to  in 
vest;  the  love  of  action  was  deep  in  her;  it  was  gen 
erally  activity  of  one  sort  or  another  that  interested 
her;  and  she  mainly  respected  only  accomplishment, 
tangible  success.  Dan  impressed  her  as  the  sort  of 
man  who  does  things;  and  this  daughter  of  a  shrewd 
and  hardworking  sire  felt  a  sudden  admiration  for  the 
new  man's  virile  strength  and  ardor. 

Dan  was  quick  to  respond,  and  he  talked  as  he  had 
never  in  his  life  talked  to  Anna,  whose  eyes  indeed 
had  never  dwelt  on  his  with  this  comprehending,  in 
tense,  intimate  gaze  of  Mrs.  Vaughan's.  He  had  im 
pounded  her  sherry,  claret,  and  water  glasses  as  well 
as  his  own,  and  two  small  silver  dishes  containing 
salt-nuts  and  candied  fruit,  to  indicate  the  mountains 
round  River  City.  It  took  all  the  forks  and  spoons 
remaining  on  the  table  to  mark  the  course  of  the  river 
and  of  the  stage-line  from  Ralston.  And  perceiving 
Dan  at  a  loss  for  some  further  object,  Mrs.  Vaughan 
slid  off  one  of  her  bracelets  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"That's  a  good  omen,"  he  said;  "River  City  is 
marked  with  gold!  Now  by  rights,  since  the  stage- 
line  is  silver,  I  should  have  gold  to  mark  the  railroad. 
But  never  mind,  you  must  imagine  it.  It  should  run 
parallel  to  this  line,  and  when  it  gets  into  River  City 
gold  and  silver  will  be  common  there.  And  it's  bound 
to  come.  With  a  gold  and  copper  country  like  that 
waiting  to  be  tapped,  the  Union  Pacific  will  build  it 

206 


THE   FORERUNNER 

themselves  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  if  we  don't. 
But  we're  going  to." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  her  tri 
umphantly;  and  the  butler,  who  had  been  hovering 
near  for  twenty  minutes,  approached  in  another 
attempt  to  place  the  salad  plates.  A  glance  from 
Mrs.  Vaughan  stopped  him.  She  did  not  want  Dan's 
map  disturbed;  the  earnestness  with  which  he  re 
garded  it  was  interesting  her  much  more  than  the  rest 
of  the  dinner. 

"How  you  care  about  it  all!"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
simply  devote  yourself  to  it,  don't  you?" 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I?  I  expect  to  make  my 
fortune  out  of  it,  you  know.  And,  besides,  it's  a  good 
enough  thing  to  devote  yourself  to." 

"And  after  you've  made  your  fortune,  what  then? 
What  shall  you  do  with  it?" 

"Oh,  as  to  spending  it,  you  mean?  I  suppose  my 
wife  will  attend  to  that.  That's  the  women's  busi 
ness,  you  know!" 

"You  mean  it's  all  they  can  do,  don't  you?  Well, 
perhaps  so.  But  surely  you  must  have  some  idea  of 
spending,  yourself.  Isn't  there  something  you  want 
a  lot?  A  yacht — a  racing-stable — a  big  establish 
ment " 

Dan  shook  his  head.  "None  of  those.  I'd  want 
to  have  some  horses,  but  mainly  to  drive  myself.  I'd 
like  a  comfortable  house — good  living.  As  for  the 
rest,  it  would  be  Anna's  lookout." 

"So  you're  really  making  it  for  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Vaughan  meditatively.  "She  cares  for  a  lot  of 
money?" 

"Oh,  ghe  likes  it.  You  all  do,  don't  you?  And— 
207 


THE  FORERUNNER 

yes,  I  suppose  I  am  making  it  for  her.  But  that's  not 
saying  that  I'm  not  pleasing  myself,  too." 

"I  see.  But  it's  really  the  making  of  it  that  you 
like." 

"I  guess  it  is — mainly." 

"Then  when  you've  made  your  fortune — your  pile, 
they  say  out  there,  don't  they? — you'll  just  put  it 
into  something  bigger?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you're  right.  And  I'll  tell 
you  about  something  that  may  or  may  not  be  bigger, 
but  I'd  look  into  it  right  off  if  I  were  free — it's  rather 
a  long  story.  Would  you  like  to  hear  it?" 

"Indeed  I  should.  And  wouldn't  you  like  to 
smoke?  I  like  a  cigarette  sometimes  with  salad." 

The  dinner  proceeded.  Dan  did  not  care  about 
smoking;  his  cigarette  went  out  and  he  laid  it  down 
to  eat  his  salad.  But  Mrs.  Vaughan  kept  hers  and 
smoked  that  and  another  while  he  was  telling  her  the 
story  of  the  lost  silver-mines.  Dan  rambled  a  bit  at 
first.  He  had  never  before  seen  a  lady  smoke.  He 
had  in  fact  a  theory  that  no  lady  would  smoke.  He 
was  a  good  deal  jarred — and  perhaps  this  showed  how 
kindly  he  had  begun  to  feel  toward  her.  She  did 
not  attract  him  sensuously,  and  yet  he  liked  her  as  a 
woman.  He  felt  that  if  he  knew  her  better  he  should 
request  her,  as  gently  as  possible,  not  to  mar  thus  the 
feminine  sweetness  of  her  looks — but  that  was  now 
out  of  the  question.  He  collected  his  thoughts  and 
went  on  with  the  story,  telling  it  concisely,  briefly, 
and  leaving  the  picturesque  outline  to  speak  for 
itself. 

"That's  one  of  the  romances  of  money -making, 
isn't  it?"  she  said  when  he  had  done.  "But  do  you 

208 


THE   FORERUNNER 

think  there's  anything  practical  in  it?  I  mean,  even 
if  the  mines  were  found,  could  they  be  worked 
now?" 

"Why  not?  Only  it  would  take  a  lot  of  money. 
You  see,  the  Indians,  or  some  say  the  Austrians,  when 
they  found  they  couldn't  hold  the  mine,  smashed  the 
machinery — and  it  would  have  to  be  replaced.  You 
can't  start  any  big  thing,  you  see,  without  a  good 
push,  and  it's  money  that  gives  that.  Here  in  the 
East  you've  got  most  of  the  money.  Out  West  we've 
got  most  of  the  big  things.  It  usually  takes  two 
kinds  of  men  to  make  a  thing  go — one  to  discover  it, 
and  do  all  the  hard  work,  and  one  to  put  up  the 
money.  Now  which  do  you  think  deserves  the  big 
gest  share  of  the  profits?" 

"Why,  I  should  think  the  discoverer,"  said  Mrs. 
V^aughan. 

"Well,  perhaps  so.  But  he  doesn't  get  it.  The 
capitalist  gets  the  lion's  share.  Look  at  Columbus! 
He  discovered  America,  but  the  King  of  Spain — that 
is  to  say,  the  fellow  who  staked  Columbus — got  the 
country,  didn't  he?" 

"I  dare  say  he  did." 

With  a  laugh  at  this  their  dinner  ended.  They 
went  into  the  library,  which  was  in  the  old  part  of  the 
house,  and  talked  a  little  longer  while  Dan  smoked 
half  a  cigar.  Then  Mrs.  Vaughan  rose. 

"It  isn't  ten  yet,  but  you've  had  a  good  bit  of  travel 
ling  to-day,  and  I'm  sure  you're  tired,"  she  said. 
"Now  I've  something  to  suggest  for  the  morning. 
My  father  won't  be  ready  for  this  business  conference 
before  ten  o'clock,  when  I  believe  his  lawyer  gets 
here,  and  he'll  probably  want  to  rest  till  then.  So 

209 


THE  FORERUNNER 

supposing  you  come  for  a  sail  with  me?  I  go  out 
every  good  morning  when  I'm  here — it's  the  only 
thing  there  is  to  do.  And  I  rather  think  this  storm 
is  going  to  blow  over  and  give  us  a  piping  breeze. 
Are  you  a  good  sailor?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,  though  I  never  tried — as  the 
man  said  when  he  was  asked  if  he  could  play  the 
fiddle." 

'"Well,  if  you've  never  tried !  It's  apt  to  be 

pretty  rough.  You  mightn't  like  it." 

"If  you  can  stand  it,  I  ought  to  be  able  to,"  said 
Dan.  "I'm  not  going  to  be  bluffed  out  that  way, 
anyhow." 

"Very  well,  then — eight  o'clock  breakfast.  You'll 
be  called  at  half  after  seven." 

She  walked  back  to  the  hall  with  him,  gave  him  a 
lighted  candle,  and  said  good-night  to  him  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  And  following  a  few  moments  later, 
she  heard,  as  she  passed  his  door,  which  was  a  little 
open,  a  shout  of  laughter,  instantly  checked.  She 
wondered  for  a  minute  but  never  knew  its  cause — the 
sight  of  his  bed,  opened  for  him,  with  his  pyjamas 
neatly  laid  out  on  the  foot.  If  this  struck  Dan  as 
rather  an  excessive  refinement  of  hospitality,  it  was 
only  a  momentarily  comical  aspect  of  what  charac 
terized  the  whole  time  of  his  stay.  He  was  thoroughly 
well  taken  care  of,  and  instead  of  a  business  errand 
was  made  to  feel  that  he  had  come  as  a  welcome  guest. 
Of  course  it  was  Mrs.  Vaughan  who  gave  the  surpris 
ing  social  aspect  to  his  visit.  That  elaborate  little 
dinner  tete-a-tete  with  a  pretty  woman,  and  the 
early  morning  excursion — nothing  could  have  been 
farther  from  Dan's  expectation.  But  he  felt  the  re- 

210 


THE  FORERUNNER 

lief  that  this  little  interval  gave  both  to  mind  and 
body — he  was  grateful  to  her.  After  the  sweltering 
heat  of  the  last  few  weeks,  the  noise  of  the  city  per 
petually,  insidiously  wearing  on  his  unaccustomed 
nerves,  the  tedium  of  the  railway  journey;  the  cool 
quiet  of  his  room  with  even  the  sound  of  wind  and 
rain  subdued — for  it  was  at  the  back  of  the  house — 
made  Dan  sleep  soundly  till  he  was  roused  in  the 
morning.  As  Mrs.  Vaughan  predicted,  the  storm 
had  blown  over.  He  looked  from  his  windows  on  the 
blue  of  a  cloudless  sky,  reflected  in  innumerable  little 
pools  of  ultramarine  among  the  yellowish  green  reeds; 
on  the  darker  surface  of  the  inlet,  crisped  by  the  wind ; 
the  roofs  of  the  village  beyond  over  the  pines  and  old 
apple-trees;  and  a  boat  riding  at  the  little  pier  a 
stone's  throw  from  him. 

As  for  the  sail,  it  was  an  experience.  The  boat 
was  rather  large;  with  a  man  to  manage  the  canvas 
and  Mrs.  Vaughan  at  the  tiller,  Dan  had  plenty  of 
room  to  range  about,  if  he  so  desired.  With  the  tide 
just  turned  and  running  their  way  they  slipped  easily 
out  into  the  bay  and  then  had  to  tack  out  against  the 
wind. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  outside V  the  man  asked.  He 
was  not  a  servant,  but  a  villager,  and  he  addressed 
Mrs.  Vaughan  with  a  little  more  brusqueness,  perhaps, 
than  he  would  have  used  to  his  own  womankind.  He 
was  in  fact  one  of  the  old  residents  of  Marshbrook, 
where  to  be  an  old  resident  means  that  your  family 
have  lived  there  a  hundred  years.  The  residents  of 
Marshbrook  had  all  known  Josiah  Purcell  as  a  boy 
and  an  equal,  and  he  was  still  to  them  an  equal  and 
"Josiah."  The  villagers  were  rather  proud  of  Josiah, 

211 


THE  FORERUNNER 

but  prouder  still  of  their  ability  to  address  him  by  his 
first  name,  to  patronize  his  children  and  snub  his 
English  servants. 

"Of  course/'  said  the  lady  briefly.  In  her  rough 
dark  suit  and  white  sweater,  with  her  head  bare,  she 
looked  less  pretty  than  on  the  night  before;  Dan 
could  see  that  she  was  a  good  deal  freckled,  and,  with 
her  hair  blown  back  from  her  forehead,  she  also  looked 
older.  But  her  physical  strength  and  vigor  were 
more  in  evidence;  and  the  swaying  of  her  lithe  figure, 
the  ease  with  which  she  managed  the  tiller,  and  her 
enjoyment  of  it  all,  were  attractive  enough. 

"You'll  get  pretty  wet,"  said  the  man. 

"Never    mind,    skipper.     I've    been    wet    before, 

haven't  I?    If  you  don't  mind  a  little  spray "  she 

turned  to  Dan. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  sitting  tight  on  the  upper  side 
of  the  boat.  "Look  out  for  your  head!"  roared  the 
skipper.  Dan  ducked  into  the  bottom,  while  the 
boom  swung  across  and  the  boat  turned  round.  They 
were  passing  now  between  the  two  curving  points  of 
land  that  enclosed  the  little  bay,  and  already  met  the 
swell  of  the  sea.  Some  distance  out  a  long  strip  of 
rocky  land  extended  about  a  mile  parallel  to  the  shore, 
and  intercepted  the  full  force  of  the  breakers.  On 
this  dashed  the  surf  which  Dan  had  heard,  and  he  saw 
it  now  leaping  high  into  the  air  in  foam.  But  even 
inside  the  breakwater  the  waves  were  crested  with 
white,  and  as  the  boat  breasted  them  in  her  oblique 
course  she  flung  the  spray  backward  in  sheets.  Dan, 
wrapped  in  a  mackintosh  which  had  been  disinterred 
from  the  cabin,  had  his  face  and  hair  drenched,  and 
could  taste  the  salt  blown  against  his  lips. 

212 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Can  you  swim?"  shouted  Mrs.  Vaughan,  smiling 
mischievously. 

"Not  a  stroke/'  he  returned,  keeping  a  calm  front, 
though  he  could  not  help  watching  the  boat's  rail 
awash  and  the  green  wall  of  water  towering  up  be 
yond.  He  was  conscious  of  some  inward  qualms,  but 
also  of  enjoying  the  thing;  and  though  they  did  ship 
a  good  deal  of  water  and  though  there  were  one  or 
two  moments  when  even  the  skipper  and  the  lady 
seemed  a  bit  tense,  he  was  never  really  alarmed.  Still 
the  keenest  enjoyment  came  perhaps  when  it  was  over 
and  he  could  realize  to  the  full  how  he  had  been  ex 
hilarated  and  refreshed.  Mrs.  Vaughan  bade  him 
good-by  when  they  returned  to  the  house.  Business 
and  a  sort  of  sentiment  were  mingled  in  that  farewell. 

'Tut  me  down  for  a  hundred  shares  of  your  stock, 
will  you?  I  want  to  feel  that  I  have  a  little  part  in 
your  success,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  the  odd 
mixture  of  manly  frankness  and  feminine  insinua 
tion  that  characterized  her.  Margaret  indeed  was  by 
turns  a  good  fellow  and  a  simple  expression  of  her  sex. 
In  either  aspect  she  was  attractive,  stimulating.  Dan 
thanked  her  warmly  "for  everything." 

He  went  into  the  business  interview,  which  took 
place  in  the  library,  between  Mr.  Purcell,  the  lawyer, 
Mr.  Andett,  and  himself,  with  a  greater  vigor,  energy 
and  mental  clearness  than  he  had  known  in  months. 
Josiah  Purcell  was  a  small  man,  made  smaller  by  a 
pronounced  stoop  of  the  shoulders,  but  wiry  and 
crabbed  in  look.  His  hair  and  short  beard  were 
white,  his  complexion  ruddy,  his  gray  eyes  quick  and 
full  of  temper.  He  was  carefully  dressed  and  cer 
tainly  did  not  suggest  the  invalid,  though  he  was  still 

213 


THE   FORERUNNER 

hoarse.  Mr.  Andett  was  an  odd  contrast — an  un 
usually  tall  man,  with  a  long,  very  gentle,  melancholy 
face,  a  subdued  manner  and  voice,  large,  grave  eyes. 

All  the  preliminaries  had  been  arranged  at  previous 
meetings,  and  this  one  was  simply  to  sign  certain  final 
papers,  copies  of  which  both  Dan  and  Mr.  Andett  had 
brought.  Josiah  PurcelPs  naive  vanity  was  gratified 
by  bringing  Dan  from  New  York  and  Andett,  a  busy 
man,  from  Boston,  to  suit  his  own  convenience,  and 
by  the  feeling  that  both  were  to  a  certain  extent  de 
pendent  on  his  will.  Andett  he  paid  a  large  yearly 
salary  to  look  after  his  interests  and  conduct  his  in 
cessant  litigation.  Daniel  Devin  he  regarded  as  a 
man  who  was  to  be  made  by  his,  PurcelPs,  money. 
True,  he  considered  it  certain  that  he,  Purcell,  was 
going  to  make  a  good  deal  out  of  Daniel  Devin's 
scheme;  but  he  preferred  to  lay  the  emphasis  on  what 
Devin  was  about  to  receive  from  him. 

His  aspect  this  morning  was  slightly  defiant.  An 
dett  on  general  principles  had  advised  him  against  the 
new  project;  and  he  had  taken  this  advice  as  some 
thing  of  an  affront  to  his  own  business  acumen.  The 
attitude  of  his  children  toward  his  engaging  in  any 
further  business  acted  as  a  still  stronger  irritant  and 
spur.  Ten  years  before,  Josiah  Purcell  had  formally 
retired  from  business,  and  had  started  for  a  European 
tour;  never  having  been  abroad  except  for  a  trip 
round  the  world  taken  for  the  sake  of  his  health  when 
he  was  a  very  young  man.  He  had  got  as  far,  this 
time,  as  Paris,  then  turned  round  and  came  back,  and 
had  ever  since  been  thwarting  the  efforts  of  his  family 
to  keep  him  in  a  state  of  elegant  leisure.  It  gave  him 
pleasure  to  thwart  them,  quite  aside  from  the  ab- 

214 


THE  FORERUNNER 

solute  necessity,  to  him,  of  an  active  life.  He  cared 
about  his  money,  but  he  cared  much  more  about  do 
ing  as  he  chose,  and  most  about  proving  that  he  was 
"as  good  a  man  as  ever." 

Dan,  when  he  took  the  noon  train  to  Boston,  car 
ried  with  him  the  documents  assuring  the  building 
of  the  smelter,  and  also  an  agreement  between  him 
self  personally  and  Purcell  providing  that  if  Dan  could 
get  the  necessary  traffic  agreement  with  the  Union 
Pacific,  Purcell  would  go  out  to  Wyoming,  and,  if 
satisfied,  would  advance  a  large  proportion  of  the 
money  needed  for  the  railroad. 


215 


V. 

Tuesday  Dan  did  not  return  to  New  York,  but 
Anna  had  a  note  from  him,  written  in  Boston  the 
morning  before,  in  which  he  said  that  he  found  work 
at  the  office  that  would  keep  him  for  several  days. 
The  first  instalment  of  Purcell's  money  was  to  be  paid 
over  to  the  company's  account  on  Wednesday.  Dan 
had  telegraphed  the  news  to  Grand,  and  asked  him 
to  telegraph  back  a  thousand  dollars.  The  arrange 
ment  had  been  that  when  Dan's  trip  to  New  York 
should  be  thus  successful,  the  company  was  to  refund 
all  his  expenses. 

Meantime,  "Boston  was  waking  up  to  the  copper 
situation."  A  number  of  copper  stocks  which  had 
been  in  the  market  all  summer,  were  now  moving. 
At  their  own  office,  there  had  been  received,  in  the 
last  few  days,  more  subscriptions  than  in  the  three 
months  preceding.  Two  of  the  Boston  papers  had 
had  editorials  on  Copper,  which  he  enclosed.  He 
was  getting  out  advertisements  for  next  day's  paper, 
moving  into  a  larger  office  and  getting  ready  for  busi 
ness.  He  hoped  to  see  her  by  Friday  or  Saturday. 

Meantime,  Anna  was  extremely  irritated  to  find, 
he  said  nothing  about  sending  money  for  the  weekly 
hotel  bill,  which  was  now  due.  She  tore  up  his  let 
ter  in  anger,  and  left  it  in  a  little  heap  of  fragments 
by  her  plate.  She  had  breakfasted  in  the  hotel,  but 
now  saw  herself  reduced  to  going  out  alone  to  some 

216 


THE   FORERUNNER 

cheap  restaurant  for  her  other  meals.  She  hated 
cheap  restaurants — hated  going  out  alone.  And  \yho 
could  tell  how  long  Dan  might  be  away?  His  goings 
and  comings  were  as  uncertain  as  the  wind. 

In  the  reading-room  she  looked  languidly  through 
a  newspaper,  and  finally  turned  to  the  advertising 
pages  and  looked  for  musical  advertisements,  but  did' 
not  find  what  she  sought  there.  Anna  wondered  if 
Mrs.  O'Beirne  could  tell  her  anything  about  teachers; 
she  thought  it  very  likely  that  Nicholas  Purcell  could. 
A  winter  in  New  York,  with  peace  and  freedom  to 
study — her  mind  had  dwelt  on  that  happy  prospect 
ever  since  her  talk  with  Nicholas.  Why  should  it 
not  be  this  winter?  Dan  would  be  busy,  and  un 
settled  most  likely;  and  he  seemed  very  well  able  to 
get  on  without  her.  And  a  winter  in  New  York,  with 
the  people  it  now  seemed  possible  she  might  know 
there — decidedly  that  would  be  worth  while!  The 
living  was  the  main  difficulty  that  presented  itself  to 
her,  for  she  thought  Dan  could  not  be  so  unkind  as 
to  oppose  her  staying.  But  it  was  very  likely  she 
would  have  to  live  in  a  poor  way.  What  practice  she 
had  had  in  scaling  Dan's  visions  down  to  actual  facts, 
taught  her  that  they  would  probably  be  poor  for  some 
time  to  come — if  indeed  they  were  ever  to  be  anything 
else.  And  when  she  thought  that  expense  might  be 
a  bar  to  her  desire,  her  project  took  a  wider  range.  In 
place  of  studying,  she  might  at  once  begin  to  earn 
money  by  her  voice.  Concert-singing  was  out  of  the 
question,  she  knew,  without  at  least  a  year's  further 
training.  But  she  might  get  a  church  engagement. 
Or  there  was  the  stage — a  vague  idea  in  the  back 
ground  of  her  thought,  but  it  indicated  the  lengths 

217 


THE  FORERUNNER 

she  was  prepared  to  go  rather  than  abandon  her 
plan. 

She  went  up  to  her  room  and  made  herself  ready 
for  the  street,  putting  on  a  black  hat  and  gloves.  Her 
gown  was  black  cloth,  one  of  her  winter  dresses  which 
the  cooler  weather  now  made  it  possible  to  wear.  She 
felt  that  it  was  suitable  and  that  she  looked  well  in 
it,  and  accordingly  was  at  ease,  at  least  in  the  hotel. 
But  she  disliked  very  much  the  attentive  glances  that 
followed  her  in  the  street.  It  was  altogether  differ 
ent  when  Dan  was  with  her,  or  when  she  could  have 
a  cab;  then  she  did  not  mind  glances.  But  to  be 
looked  at  boldly,  perhaps  not  recognized  for  what 
she  was,  that  was  terrible  to  her.  Colonel  O'Beirne's 
hotel  was  hardly  ten  minutes  walk  from  hers,  how 
ever,  and  she  went  down  Fifth  Avenue  and  up  the 
cross  street,  avoiding  Broadway. 

The  O'Beirnes  had  gone  to  Washington  and  would 
not  be  back  for  several  days.  Anna  had  no  liking  for 
either  of  them,  but  her  disappointment  was  keen.  She 
had  no  way  now  of  proceeding  another  step,  until 
somebody  came  back — either  Flora  O'Beirne,  Dan 
or  Purcell.  In  the  whole  city  she  knew  nobody  else, 
excepting  a  lawyer  who  had  once  dined  with  them, 
and  of  him  she  knew  only  his  name,  and  did  not  want 
to  know  more.  She  walked  back  up  the  Avenue,  feel 
ing  deserted.  But  there  were  things  that  it  interested 
her  to  look  at.  The  town  was,  as  Purcell  had  said, 
waking  up.  The  storm  had  washed  it  clean  for  the  time 
being,  and  under  the  bright  blue  sky  it  wore  a  shining 
morning  face.  There  was  a  touch  of  crispness  in  the 
air,  that  made  the  people  in  the  street  fill  their  lungs 
and  walk  briskly.  Either  they  looked  better  in  con- 

218 


THE   FORERUNNER 

sequence,  or  the  change  of  air  had  brought  in  a  better- 
looking  class.  Even  the  appearance  of  the  fashiona 
ble  shops  hi  the  basements  and  first  floors  of  the  old 
dwelling-houses  along  the  avenue  had  changed  almost 
overnight.  The  shops  with  curios,  antiques,  rugs 
and  pictures,  interested  Anna  a  good  deal,  but  she 
walked  more  slowly  past  the  milliners',  in  each  of 
whose  chaste  windows  bloomed  discreetly  two  or 
three  oblations  to  the  coming  season. 

Having  passed  the  shops  she  had  also  temporarily 
passed  the  region  of  interest,  for  the  dwelling-houses 
proper,  up  toward  the  Park,  were  still  tightly  closed; 
the  boarded-up  doors  and  windows  seemed  to  keep 
a  blank  superiority  toward  the  new  life  of  the 
street. 

Anna  wondered  if  Purcell  or  if  his  sister  lived  in  one 
of  those  houses.  Mrs.  Vaughan  must  have  a  hus 
band:  what  was  he  like?  Were  they  all  up  at  Lenox 
now,  with  the  red-haired  woman  and  the  blond  man? 
Should  she  see  Purcell  again?  He  had  indicated  that 
he  meant  to  see  her,  when  his  sisters  return  from 
nursing  her  father  left  him  free  to  come  back  to  the 
city.  But  very  likely  he  had  forgotten.  Why  had 
not  Dan  mentioned  Mrs.  Vaughan  in  his  letter?  He 
must  have  seen  her  at  Marshbrook,  and  he  knew  she 
was  interested  in  Mrs.  Vaughan.  But  Dan  never 
wrote  about  interesting  things.  Only  about  business, 
business,  business.  And  there  would  be  nothing  but 
business  at  River  City.  A  winter  at  River  City — 
oh,  no,  it  was  no  longer  possible.  If  only  Purcell 
would  come  again,  she  would  ask  his  advice,  yes,  his 
help.  If  he  did  not  come — well,  she  might  write  to 
him.  Anna  felt  a  little  desperate.  .  .  . 

219 


THE  FORERUNNER 

If  it  was  a  coincidence  that  he  appeared  on  that 
day,  it  was  one  that  might  have  happened  any  day; 
for  he  was  often  in  her  thoughts,  as  the  only  person 
known  to  her  who  might  relieve  the  dreariness  of  her 
situation.  He  came,  in  fact,  at  five;  and  Anna  had 
been  in  her  room  at  the  hotel  since  half-past  four,  with 
the  intention  of  not  missing  him,  if  he  should  come. 
Again  she  found  him  in  the  Turkish  room;  and  she 
now  decided  that  he  preferred  that  place  on  account 
of  the  superior  ease  of  the  seats,  and  also  that  the 
limpness  and  laziness  of  mien  which  she  had  observed 
in  him  were  not  the  effect  of  the  weather,  but  his  nor 
mal  manner.  As  he  sat  one-sided  in  his  chair,  his  el 
bow  on  the  back  of  it,  he  seemed  more  loose-jointed 
and  careless  than  ever.  The  stray  lock  of  hair  hung 
down  on  his  forehead,  too.  But  Anna  was  used  to 
his  appearance  by  now,  used  to  his  tired  but  interested 
look,  his  amiable  smile;  and  she  thought  him,  as  she 
might  have  said,  very  distingue. 

"You  see  we  have  begun  to  treat  you  better  al 
ready/'  Purcell  said.  "Aren't  you  in  a  friendlier 
mood  to  us  than  you  were  last  week?  At  least  from 
now  on  you'll  find  it  possible  to  live  here." 

Anna  was  a  little  startled  and  puzzled,  till  she  per 
ceived  that  he  was  simply  referring  to  the  weather. 

"Oh,  I  hope  so,"  she  said  fervently. 

Purcell  thought  she  was  even  handsomer  than  be 
fore,  and  for  some  reason  or  other,  looking  more  alive. 
How  much  of  the  rose  in  her  cheeks  and  the  light  in 
her  eyes  was  due  to  the  autumnal  air  and  how  much 
to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him,  he  could  not,  of  course, 
be  expected  to  guess. 

"Oh,  you  are  in  a  friendlier  mood/'  he  said,  half- 
220 


THE  FORERUNNER 

laughing.  "The  other  day,  if  you  remember,  you 
were  very  doubtful  about  it— wanting  to  live  here,  I 
mean.  There  were  all  sorts  of  conditions " 

"I've  been  thinking  about  it  since,"  said  Anna. 

"And  got  rid  of  the  conditions?    I  hope  so." 

"Oh,  no,  there  are  conditions.  But  not  the  ones 
I  was  thinking  of  the  other  day.  I've  been  think 
ing " 

She  paused,  the  idea  having  occurred  to  her  that 
she  ought  really  to  tell  Dan  about  her  plan  before  dis 
cussing  it  with  this  friendly  stranger.  But  Dan,  as 
usual  when  he  was  wanted,  was  not  within  reach,  and 
surely  this  opportunity  was  not  to  be  lost!  She 
frowned  at  her  awkwardness— Purcell  looked  amused, 
and  she  blushed  and  hurried  on,  "I  have  thought  of 
studying  here  in  New  York  this  winter,  since  you 
spoke  of  it.  I  mean,  of  course  I  had  thought  of  it 
before,  vaguely — but  now  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't 
do  it  this  winter.  And  I  wondered  if  you  could  tell 
me  of  a  good  teacher  to  go  to." 

"Let  me  see.  My  sister  was  studying  something 
last  winter — no,  though,  it  was  acting,  I  believe.  But 
I  know  plenty  of  people  who  have  studied,  or  who 
could  tell  me  about  it— and  I'll  find  out.  I'll  get  a 
list  for  you." 

"Oh,  thank  you — but  that  would  be  too  much  to 
ask!  I  don't  want  to  trouble  you " 

"It  won't  be  any  trouble.  A  couple  of  notes,  of 
two  lines  each,  will  bring  me  all  the  information  I 
want.  But  it  will  be  several  days — a  week  perhaps. 
You  see  the  people  I  thought  of  consulting  are  off  in 
the  country  somewhere.  I'll  telegraph  to  Margaret 
to-night — my  sister.  She  ought  to  know  somebody." 

221 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Telegraph?  Oh,  there  isn't  any  such  hurry  as 
that!" 

"Well,  it's  easier  than  writing.  I  always  telegraph 
to  Margaret.  She'll  be  interested  too,  if  she  hears 
it's  for  you.  She  got  back  to  Lenox  yesterday,  and 
before  I  left  she'd  talked  to  me  a  full  hour  about  your 
husband.  She  said  he  was  the  most  interesting  per 
son  she'd  met  in  ages;  that  the  time  she  spent  with 
him  at  Marshbrook  was  the  only  time  she  hadn't  been 
bored  there — and  any  amount  of  things.  She  took  him 
sailing,  I  believe,  and  monopolized  all  she  could  of 
his  stay  there — but  she  said  she  got  more  pleasure  out 
of  it  than  he  did,  she  thought." 

"Why,  he  never  wrote  me  a  word  about  it!"  cried 
Anna,  her  wide  gaze  speaking  surprise  and  a  grievance. 
"He  didn't  mention  your  sister,  or  any  sail,  or  any 
thing!  His  letter  was  all  about  business "  She 

checked  herself,  sensitive  about  seeming  to  complain 
about  Dan,  and  managed  to  laugh.  "But  he'll  tell 
me  all  about  it  when  I  see  him,"  she  ended. 

"Oh,  your  husband  isn't  here,  then?" 

"No,  he's  in  Boston — for  several  days,  I  sup 
pose." 

"I'm  sorry,  very.  I'd  hoped  that  you  and  he  would 
dine  with  me  to-night." 

"Oh!"  Anna  turned  quite  pale  with  disappoint 
ment.  "I'm  very  sorry  too.  I'm  sure  he  would  have 
liked  it — very  much — and  so  should  I." 

"Well,  why  can't  I  still  make  up  a  little  party,  per 
haps  with  those  friends  of  yours — the  O'Briens ?" 

"O'Briens?  Oh,  you  mean  the  O'Beirnes.  But 
they're  not  friends  of  mine.  And  anyhow  they're  in 
Washington." 

222 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"E  very  body's  out  of  town — it's  a  nuisance,  isn't 
it?  And  really  it's  very  hard  on  me.  I  shall  have  to 
dine  all  alone." 

"No  harder  than  on  me.  But  I'm  getting  quite 
used  to  it,"  said  Anna  resignedly. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  dine  together, 
do  you?  If  you  really  would  like  it?" 

"Oh." 

Purcell  thought  he  understood  her  by  this  time, 
pretty  well.  He  felt  the  struggle  between  her  wish 
and  her  fear  of  offending  propriety  which  made  a 
blank  pause.  But  she  must  say  something.  And 
to  refuse  now  would  look  silly  and  awkward,  Anna 
said  to  herself,  palpitating.  It  would  look  as  though 
she  thought  he  had  suggested  something  improper. 
And  he  had  made  the  suggestion  in  such  a  matter-of- 
fact  way !  No,  it  must  be  all  right,  of  course. 

She  said,  rather  lamely,  rather  timidly: 

"I  should  be  very  glad — if  you  would  like  it." 

Purcell  thought  her  charming.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  flashing  wish  that  his  sister,  or  her  husband,  or 
somebody,  had  been  available ;  and  of  a  more  lasting 
satisfaction  that  they  were  not.  It  would  be  too  bad 
to  do  anything  to  put  this  pretty  creature  at  odds  with 
her  husband — who  looked  like  an  elemental,  jealous 
brute — or  with  herself.  But  it  would  be  too  bad, 
also,  to  sacrifice  what  promised  to  be  a  pleasant  ex 
perience.  It  was  literally  true  that  he  knew  nobody 
in  town  now  who  could  reasonably  be  asked  to  share 
their  little  expedition;  but  at  least  one  ought  to  be 
allowed  the  advantage  of  the  fact  that  nobody  was  in 
town.  He  meant  to  take  Anna  to  a  little  restaurant 
which  is  fairly  unfrequented  even  in  the  season, 

223 


THE  FORERUNNER 

though  one  can  get  as  good  food  there  as  is  procurable 
in  New  York;  the  few  who  go  to  it  cheerfully  paying 
for  the  many  who  stay  away.  And  when  they  had 
agreed  on  the  hour  of  seven,  he  went  around  there 
to  order  the  dinner,  Monsieur  Chapuis  liking  to  be 
consulted  a  little  in  advance  if  his  best  efforts  are 
desired. 

However,  until  Anna  actually  found  herself  on  the 
way  thither,  it  had  seemed  to  her  by  no  means  certain 
that  she  was  going.  She  was  not  certain  of  anything 
about  the  affair — whether  Purcell  should  have  asked 
her  to  go,  or  whether  she  should  have  consented.  She 
wished  that  she  had  known  him  longer;  that  Dan 
knew  his  family  in  a  way,  did  not  really  alter  the  fact 
that  she  had  seen  him  only  three  times.  She  really 
knew  nothing  about  him,  and,  what  might  be  worse, 
he  knew  nothing  about  her.  Since  her  experience 
with  De  Ronde,  Anna  had  had  a  pathetic  fear  of  being 
put  in  an  equivocal  position,  of  being  treated  lightly 
or  rudely.  She  was  conscious  that  she  knew  little  of 
the  world,  and  that  her  marriage  had  so  far  not  given 
her  the  calm  assurance  which  she  had  thought  the 
prerogative  of  married  women.  With  Purcell  she 
knew  she  had  no  assurance  at  all.  After  he  had  left 
her  she  fell  into  a  kind  of  panic.  Suppose  he  thought 
less  of  her  for  going?  And  what  would  Dan  say 
about  it? 

But  the  thought  of  Dan  was  a  counter-irritant.  If 
Dan  had  not  broken  his  agreement  to  come  back  on 
that  day,  it  wouldn't  have  happened.  It  was  Dan's 
fault.  Dan  coolly  left  her  alone,  without  a  friend, 
without  sufficient  money,  even  depriving  her  of  the 

convenience  of  a  watch !  At  this  point  she  shed 

224 


THE  FORERUNNER 

a  tear  or  two,  and  began  to  feel  that  she  was  fairly 
entitled  to  a  little  pleasure. 

And  how  very  quiet  and  irreproachable  a  pleasure 
it  proved!  Beyond  the  simple  fact  that  she  went, 
nobody  could  reasonably  object  to  anything  in  the 
proceeding.  They  walked  the  few  squares  to  and 
from  the  restaurant,  Anna  enjoying  the  sharp  even 
ing  air  and  also  her  handsome  furs,  which  she  wore 
with  a  dark  cloth  dress  and  black  hat.  And  the 
moment  she  was  with  Purcell  again,  her  tremors  dis 
appeared.  He  had  a  kind  of  brotherly,  almost 
prosaic  way  of  taking  charge  of  her.  In  his  manner 
was  no  trace  of  the  kind  of  admiration  now  odious 
to  her  through  association  with  De  Ronde.  The  in 
terest  he  showed  seemed  to  take  no  account  of  her 
beauty.  She  could  find  only  one  word  for  it — it  was 
just  friendly,  and  it  was  as  delightful  as  new  to  her. 

The  restaurant  seemed  to  consist  of  two  rooms,  in 
which  stood  perhaps  a  dozen  little  tables,  not  set  out 
and  ready  for  guests,  but  simply  there  in  case  any 
body  came.  No  other  persons  were  visible  when 
they  went  in  and  took  the  table  set  for  them  near  the 
windows;  but  from  the  back  room  came  the  sound 
of  conversation — a  man's  voice  and  a  woman's — and 
of  subdued  laughter.  The  place  had  a  quaint  plain 
ness,  the  only  decorations  being  a  few  small  paint 
ings  in  deep  gilt  frames,  hung  so  far  up  that  their 
miniature  subjects  were  hardly  to  be  made  out.  It 
was  lit  by  old-fashioned  crystal-drop  chandeliers, 
one  in  each  room,  reflected  in  long  mirrors  between 
the  windows.  In  fact  the  scene  of  Monsieur  Chapuis's 
hospitality  had  been  a  private  house  of  sober  elegance 
in  its  day;  and  he  had  preserved  as  much  of  its  former 

225 


THE   FORERUNNER 

air  as  possible — the  sobriety  if  not  the  elegance.  The 
little  interior  was  made  to  seem  still  more  quiet  and 
isolated,  by  the  roar  of  the  elevated  and  the  clanging 
of  the  surface  cars,  half  a  block  away. 

"A  queer  little  place,  isn't  it?"  said  Purcell.  "I 
thought  it  might  be  novel  to  you.  After  some 
months  of  hotel  and  restaurant  life,  one  gets  pretty 
tired  of  the  round,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  thought  at  first  that  the  foreign  res 
taurants  were  wonderful — you  know  there  isn't  any 
thing  like  that  in  the  West.  But  now  I  hate  them — 
the  table  d' notes,  I  mean.  Mr.  Devin  likes  chop- 
houses,  but  they  are  so  noisy,  and  have  such  bad 
music.  It's  very  quiet  here,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  reason  I  like  it.  But  you  oughtn't 
to  be  wanting  quiet  already — wait  for  that  till  you've 
lived  four  or  five  years  in  this  uproar.  Then  you're 
allowed  to  have  nerves.  But  now  you  should  be  in 
the  mood  to  enjoy  the  enormity  of  it.  I  was,  when 
I  came  back  after  five  years  of  loafing  mainly  in  little 
German  university  towns.  After  I  got  over  being 
deafened  and  shocked  by  the  way  life  moves  here,  I 
was  rather  exhilarated  by  it.  And  the  effort  that 
one  has  to  make  just  to  exist,  made  me  feel  that  I  was 
really  working  at  something.  You  see  it's  impossible 
to  loaf  in  New  York,  even  if,  like  me,  you  do  nothing 
else.  But  now  I  have  got  to  the  point  of  wanting  to 
loaf  again." 

"Then  shall  you  go  back  to  Germany?" 

"Oh,  there  are  other  places.  No,  I  don't  think  I 
could  go  back  to  the  university  kind  of  loafing.  You 
see,  I  had  a  sort  of  excuse  then.  I  was  supposed  to 
be  studying  philosophy.  But  I  came  home  because 

226 


THE  FORERUNNER 

I  really  could  not  impose  upon  myself  any  longer — 
so,  of  course,  there's  no  use  trying  it  again." 

At  this  point  appeared  Monsieur  Chapuis,  a  smiling, 
rosy  little  man,  and  after  greeting  them  he  presented 
what  were,  as  he  assured  Pur  cell,  the  first  perfect 
oysters  of  the  season.  Twenty-five  minutes  later 
he  removed  the  first  course  with  a  soup  for  which  also 
he  had  a  word  of  commendation.  The  dinner  pro 
ceeded  by  similar  easy  stages,  and  in  the  intervals 
between  his  little  presentation  speeches  Monsieur 
Chapuis  disappeared  completely,  though  now  and 
then  his  voice  might  be  heard  for  a  moment  as  he  at 
tended  on  the  couple  within.  For  the  rest,  it  may 
be  that  he  cooked  the  dinner;  or,  it  may  be,  he 
thought  it  discreet  to  disappear.  Anna  realized 
that  the  dinner  was  very  good;  she  realized,  too,  that 
she  enjoyed  the  intervals  more  than  the  food.  It 
did  not  need  the  white  wine  and  the  red  to  lighten 
her  spirits,  to  keep  alive  her  secret  excitement;  the 
sight  of  Purcell,  sitting  opposite  her  with  a  quiet  air 
of  belonging  there,  was  enough  to  do  that.  And  he 
was  telling  her  things  that  she  was  eager  to  know, 
about  himself,  his  life. 

He  was  humorous  about  it;  he  offered  a  mock 
apology  for  his  evident  entire  uselessness  to  anyone 
but  himself. 

"But  what  can  you  expect,"  he  said,  "from  a  per 
son  of  my  antecedents?  Have  you  ever  seen  my 
father?  Well,  he  is  a  New  Englander  and  Puritan 
to  the  backbone,  and  the  most  strenuous  person  of 
my  acquaintance.  He  started  life  with  a  fair  capital 
of  energy  and  with  a  conscience  that  made  him  work 
like  the  devil.  I  had  a  strenuous  time  of  it  in  my 

227 


THE  FORERUNNER 

youth.  He  wasn't  going  to  see  me  damned  into  idle 
ness  if  he  could  help  it.  I  went  through  Harvard 
and  the  law-school  on  time — but  then,  I  came  into  a 
little  money,  enough  to  live  on.  And — I've  just  been 
living  on  it  ever  since.  You  see,  it's  the  natural  re 
action.  Our  fathers  pulled  the  pendulum  too  far  one 
way,  we  swing  to  the  other  extreme.  Regard  me  as  a 
type,  please.  I  regard  myself  in  that  way.  Taking 
one's  self  as  an  interesting  scientific  phenomenon, 
I  find,  is  an  easy  way  of  avoiding  the  sting  of  con 
science.  " 

"Does  your  conscience  sting  you?  Why?"  in 
quired  Anna,  declining  the  scientific  aspect  of  the 
theme. 

"Why?  Because  that  is  what  consciences  are 
made  for,  I  suppose.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  one  that 
didn't  sting?  If  you  ask  me  why  I  have  a  conscience, 
I  can  only  refer  again  to  my  Puritan  ancestry.  But, 
on  the  whole,  I'm  not  sorry  I  have  one.  I  like  to  try 
experiments  with  it." 

"Experiments!"  laughed  Anna.     "What  an  idea!" 

"Exactly,  you're  shocked.  I've  no  doubt  you  treat 
your  conscience  with  respect  and  care,  as  my  ances 
tors  did  theirs.  When  you  were  a  little  girl  and  were 
dressed  up  in  a  fine  white  frock  on  Sundays  and  told 
to  keep  It  perfectly  clean,  I've  no  doubt  you  sat  still 
with  folded  hands,  and  did  as  you  were  told.  But 
when  I  was  told  to  keep  my  Sunday  clothes  clean,  I 
couldn't  do  it.  I  was  miserable  till  I'd  done  some 
thing  to  them,  to  see  how  they'd  look  when  they  were 
dirty,  to  see  whether  I'd  be  switched  or  not.  Well, 
it's  just  the  same  with  my  conscience." 

"I  don't  believe  you  have  much  on  your  conscience, 
228 


THE  FORERUNNER 

all  the  same.    You  wouldn't  think  it  worth  while  to 
do  anything  wrong,  I'm  sure." 

"Oh,  you're  mistaken!  But  I  admit  that  my  sins 
are  mainly  sins  of  omission.  It  could  hardly  be  other 
wise,  you  know,  when  I  don't  do  anything.  But 
that  perhaps  is  the  worst  kind.  A  great  many  good 
people  think  so.  I  rather  think  so  myself." 

"I  don't  see  why.  Do  you  mean  that  just  doing 
things  is  a  virtue?" 

"Certainly.  You  think  so  too,  don't  you?  Don't 
you  despise  a  person  who  drifts  along  self-indulgently, 
amounting  to  nothing,  while  all  about  him  men  are 
toiling  and  accomplishing  things — making  money, 
getting  themselves  elected  to  Congress,  writing  books 
or  bringing  up  families?  Oh,  I'm  a  drone  in  a  busy 
hive." 

"I  think  the  drones  must  have  the  best  time  of  it." 

"But  how  can  they  keep  their  self-respect?  They're 
so  looked  down  on,  you  see.  Sometimes,  I  believe, 
they're  stung  to  death  by  the  workers  in  righteous 
rage.  I  often  feel  very  uncomfortable,  I  assure  you. 
My  relatives  consider  me  a  melancholy  failure.  I 
really  only  enjoy  myself,  as  a  rule,  in  the  society  of 
fellow-drones.  But  happily  there  are  some  energetic 
and  ambitious  people  who  actually  afford  me  a  little 
sympathy  now  and  then.  You've  been  very  in 
dulgent." 

"I?  But  do  you  call  me  energetic?  I  don't  do 
anything!" 

"Oh,  you're  energetic — ambitious.  Aren't  you 
going  to  work  hard  in  New  York  this  winter?  By  the 
way,  I've  telegraphed  to  my  sister.  I'll  send  you  her 
answer  to-morrow." 

229 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  thank  you.  But  I  am  giving  you  so  much 
trouble — and  it  isn't  even  certain  that  I  can  stay.  I 
only  hope  to.  But  I  shan't  know  till  Mr.  Devin  comes 
back — unless  I  write  him  about  it.  I  can  do  that." 

Anna  made  a  mental  note  to  write  to  Dan;  and 
Purcell  noted  that  Dan  was  so  far  in  ignorance  of  her 
plan.  He  at  once  set  it  down  as  unlikely  that  she 
would  stay. 

"I  would  do  a  good  deal  for  the  sake  of  staying/' 
she  went  on,  her  unwonted  reserve  beginning  to  give 
way.  "I'd  even  thought  of  something  on  the  stage, 
perhaps — if  there  wasn't  any  other  way." 

Purcell  was  a  good  deal  puzzled  by  this.  Did  she 
mean  by  the  "other  way"  money?  Did  she  mean 
that  her  husband  might  not  have  the  money — which 
was  unlikely,  considering  he  had  just  bagged  a  good 
many  thousands  of  the  old  gentleman's — or  that  he 
might  not  give  it  to  her?  Was  she  going  to  quarrel 
with  him  about  it?  And  why  the  stage  as  alterna 
tive?  Why  was  she  anxious  to  stay  in  New  York 
if  not  to  study?  Was  she  going  to  quarrel  with  her 
husband  anyhow? 

"Ah,  that  is  energetic,"  he  said.  "But — I  doubt 
whether  you'd  like  the  stage.  At  least  you  wouldn't 
unless  you're  very,  very  energetic." 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid  I'm  not,"  sighed  Anna.  "And  I 
don't  agree  with  you  in  one  way,  I  don't  think  it's  a 
virtue  to  be.  There's  only  one  thing  that  I  think 
worth  while  doing — and  that  is,  to  enjoy  life!  If  you 
do  that,  you're  a  success — if  you  don't,  you're  a  fail 
ure,  no  matter  what  you  do." 

And  she  nodded  emphatically,  with  her  shining 
glance  full  of  defiant  meaning. 

230 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"But  you've  named  the  occupation  that  is  the  hard 
est — to  most  people — in  the  world/'  protested  Pur- 
cell.  "You've  no  idea  how  hard  people  work  at  that 
— and  fail,  most  of  them." 

"Well,  that  doesn't  matter.  Some  people  suc 
ceed,  and  without  trying  very  hard  either.  I  think 
you  do — don't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  No,  I  don't  think  I'm  a  suc 
cess,  in  your  sense  of  the  word.  I  don't  enjoy  life — 
in  any  definite,  spectacular  way.  I'm  not  young 
enough — or  pagan  enough.  And  yet  it's  true  that  if 
— if  I  were  Faust  and  had  made  his  compact  with  the 
devil,  I  should  have  been  damned  without  a  doubt." 

"What  compact?"  she  asked,  intently. 

"Faust  said  to  the  devil,  you  know,  that  if  he  could 
ever  make  him,  Faust,  so  content  with  the  passing 
moment  that  he  said  to  it  'Verbleibe  doch,  du  bist  so 
schon' — 'Remain,  you  are  so  beautiful!' — the  devil 
could  have  his  soul.  In  that  way  I  could  have  lost 
my  soul  over  and  over  again." 

"Then  you  have  enjoyed  life." 

"And  I  could  never  have  slid  out  of  the  bargain  as 
Faust  did !  You  remember  how  he  was  saved ?" 

"No,  except  that  he  goes  up  to  heaven  with  Mar 
guerite " 

"Well,  in  the  poem  he  does  say  to  the  moment,  Ver- 
bleibe  dock — but  it  is  in  contemplating  his  own  good 
deeds.  He  has  built  an  aqueduct  which  benefits 
large  numbers  of  his  fellow-creatures — and  because 
of  that  virtue  of  his  the  devil  is  foiled  and  Faust  goes 
to  heaven!  You  see  the  moral  of  that  is  on  my  side 
— or  rather  against  me  personally  and  for  my  argu 
ment.  I  could  never  build  anything  like  an  aqueduct 

231 


THE  FORERUNNER 

— or  a  railroad.  And  one  must  be  strenuous  to  be 
saved." 

"And  to  be  happy?  Do  you  think  so?"  Anna 
asked  rather  wistfully. 

"I  suppose  so/'  said  Nicholas.  "At  least  other 
people  will  make  you  unhappy  if  you're  not." 

"I  don't  believe  you're  unhappy,"  she  said  gravely. 
"It  would  be  a  shame  if  you  should  be  made  so,  just 
because  you  don't  agree  with  somebody  else " 

"But  if  you  can't  agree  with  'somebody  else'  you 
oughtn't  to  be  fond  of  them.  You  can't  be  happy 
and  constantly  irritated  too — though  you  may  love 
and  be  irritated,  I  suppose." 

"That's  true,"  said  Anna  sombrely 

And  they  looked  at  one  another  with  a  sudden  feel 
ing  of  intimacy,  though  their  confidences,  that  even 
ing,  went  no  further. 


232 


VI. 

"VTEXT  day  Anna  had  a  note  from  Purcell,  enclos- 
-*-^  ing  this  telegram:  "Bella  says  try  F.  Kreisner 
or  Madame  Venner,  both  expensive.  List  of  teachers 
at  music-stores.  When  do  you  return — M." 

His  note  gave  her  the  two  addresses,  and  promised 
further  data,  which  he  expected  to  get  from  a  musical 
critic  of  his  acquaintance.  "I  ought  to  have  thought 
of  him  in  the  first  place  instead  of  my  sister,"  he 
ended.  "It  seems  singing  is  one  of  the  few  things  she 
hasn't  tried  herself." 

Anna  found  his  handwriting  very  difficult  to  read 
— a  rapid,  careless  scrawl,  each  word  ending  form- 
lessly  in  the  same  running  dash.  The  paper  bore 
the  name  of  the  University  Club. 

She  pondered  a  long  time  over  his  note  and  the 
telegram.  She  would  have  liked  to  consult  one  of  the 
teachers  named,  but  she  was  a  little  nervous  about 
the  question  of  fees,  since  her  money  was  nearly  gone. 
So  she  simply  wrote  Dan  a  note,  acquainting  him 
with  the  latter  fact  and  asking  when  he  meant  to 
come  back.  Then  she  went  out  to  dinner  alone, 
choosing  a  restaurant  in  the  shopping  district,  which 
was  fairly  good,  cheap,  and  much  frequented,  as  she 
had  observed,  by  women  apparently  in  no  need  of 
escorts.  Some  of  these  women  had  the  flashy  "style" 
and  the  hard  faces  which  inspired  Anna  with  con- 

233 


THE  FORERUNNER 

tempt  and  loathing;  they  generally  came  in  couples. 
But  the  other  sort,  the  majority,  had  a  solid  business 
like  air,  and  were  plainly  though  well  enough  dressed. 
Generally  each  one  had  an  evening  newspaper,  which 
she  would  prop  up  against  the  cruet  in  the  middle  of 
the  table,  and  read  while  she  ate  her  solitary  meal. 
There  would  be  family  parties,  too,  often.  The  front 
part  of  the  restaurant  was  usually  filled  with  men; 
many  of  these  wore  diamonds  in  their  ties  and  on 
their  little  fingers,  which  glittered  in  the  electric  light 
as  they  selected  their  dinner  from  the  show-case  con 
taining  live  crabs  and  lobsters.  But  all  was  orderly 
and  reasonably  quiet,  even  to  the  music  of  piano, 
violin  and  'cello. 

Anna  studied  the  lone  women  now  with  unusual 
interest.  Soon,  she  reflected,  she  might  be  one  of 
them.  She  must  try  to  acquire  that  matter-of-fact 
look,  to  feel,  as  they  apparently  did,  that  nobody 
was  looking,  or  at  least  that  what  she  did  was  no 
body's  affair.  And  it  would  be  nobody's  affair.  She 
might  be  utterly  alone.  Her  face  was  very  melan 
choly  as  she  considered  this  prospect.  Pur  cell  prob 
ably  had  left  the  city,  or  at  least  he  would  be  leaving 
again  soon.  Had  not  the  telegram  shown  that?  And 
then  he  had  spoken  of  going  abroad  again.  Of  course 
she  could  not  count  on  him  in  any  way — and  who  else 
was  there?  Perhaps  it  would  be  better,  after  all,  to 
give  it  up,  and  to  go  back  West  with  Dan. 

If  it  were  only  to  mean  a  sort  of  business  life — hard 
work,  solitary  meals,  going  home  at  night  with  your 
veil  over  your  face,  and  your  eyes  and  ears  shut,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  the  life  of  the  streets — why,  then, 
even  River  City  might  be  preferable.  But  it  need 

234 


THE  FORERUNNER 

not  mean  only  that.  If  she  knew  only  a  few  people 
like  the  Purcells,  had  even  occasional  glimpses  of 
their  life,  it  would  make  her  own  interesting. 

She  was  still  halting  and  hesitating  when  Dan 
came,  two  days  later.  She  was  not  expecting  him, 
though  he  had  written  her  that  he  was  coming.  She 
was  rather  vaguely  expecting  Purcell.  It  was  the 
hour  when  he  had  come  before,  and  she  sat  in  her 
room.  Dan  came  in  with  a  whirl,  threw  a  half-dollar 
to  the  boy  who  brought  in  his  suit-case,  coat,  and  par 
cels,  and  had  Anna  in  his  arms  before  Buttons  was 
fairly  out  of  the  room. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  never  coming?  I  got  your 
note  yesterday — whew!  it  sounded  mad.  Don't 
blame  you  though,  dearest!  It  was  pretty  hard  on 
you.  But  honestly  I  couldn't  help  it.  The  money 
only  came  this  morning — from  Grand,  I  mean,  and 
I  rushed  right  off.  Only  for  a  day  though;  then  I 
must  go  back  to  Boston.  Things  are  beginning  to 
hum  now,  at  last!" 

Anna  felt  a  little  comforted  when  he  held  her  close. 
She  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him.  There  was  at 
least  usually  something  doing  when  Dan  was  about. 
He  brought  with  him  a  stir  of  excitement,  perhaps 
gayety — at  least  of  life.  Now  he  put  Anna  into  a 
chair,  and  dropped  a  florist's  box  into  her  lap.  She 
found  a  dozen  great  red  roses,  their  long  stems  stuck 
through  a  hole  cut  in  the  pasteboard.  He  had  brought 
also  some  of  her  favorite  chocolates  and  a  bundle  of 
magazines  and  papers. 

"You  may  like  to  see  what  they  say  in  Boston  about 
copper  now,"  he  said  with  his  militant  air.  "But  I'll 
brush  up  a  bit  and  we'll  have  some  dinner  first,  then 

235 


THE  FORERUNNER 

I'll  tell  you  about  things.  I've  been  pretty  busy  over 
there.  You  look  well,  dearest." 

"Oh,  I  am  well  enough/'  Anna  said. 

She  lay  back  in  the  low  chair,  holding  the  roses  to 
her  face,  her  eyes  looking  rather  contentedly  over 
them.  Dan  came  to  kiss  her  again.  Then  whistling 
he  took  out  of  his  coat-pockets  half-a-dozen  jeweller's 
boxes  and  laid  them  on  the  bureau. 

"I  guess  we  won't  have  to  do  that  again,"  he  re 
marked  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  my  rings!    Give  them  to  me!"  she  cried. 

She  took  out  the  rings  and  put  them  on,  slipped  her 
watch  into  her  belt  and  held  up  the  open  cases  con 
taining  her  two  diamond  brooches,  moving  them 
slightly  to  catch  the  colored  lights. 

"Poor  girl!"  said  Dan  suddenly. 

She  did  not  answer  and  he  stood  looking  at  her 
thoughtfully. 

"Have  you  missed  them  much?"  he  asked,  smiling, 
with  a  kind  of  tender  pity.  Anna  answered  care 
lessly,  piqued  by  his  tone, 

"I  hate  to  lose  things.  Yes,  I'm  glad  to  get  them 
back." 

"And  I'm  glad  to  get  you  back,"  said  he  not  very 
relevantly. 

At  his  request  Anna  put  on  her  blue  silk  and  the 
diamonds,  and  they  dined  early  at  the  hotel. 

Dan  was  full  of  the  prospects  in  Boston.  Josiah 
Purcell's  large  purchase  of  the  Mallory  stock  had 
started  a  run  on  it.  They  had  sold  off  all  that  of 
fered  at  five  dollars  a  share  and  put  the  price  up  to 
seven-fifty.  The  next  lot  offered  would  be  at  par. 
With  their  new  offices  and  a  proper  use  of  Purcell's 

236 


THE   FORERUNNER 

name,  which  counted  for  a  good  deal  over  there,  Dan 
calculated  that  it  wouldn't  be  long  before  there  was 
something  like  a  rush  for  it.  Copper  was  the  thing 
now  anyway.  Boston  was  a  bit  slow  about  waking 
up,  but  when  she  did  have  a  good  thing  hammered 
into  her  head  .  .  . 

"Is  Mr.  Purcell  very  rich?"  inquired  Anna. 

"Oh,  he  has  a  few  millions  salted  away.  But  it's 
his  character  that  counts.  He's  known  as  a  safe, 
conservative  sort  of  man,  you  see " 

"You  didn't  write  anything  about  your  visit  there 
— or  about  his  sister — I  mean  Mr.  Purcell's  daughter," 
said  Anna  reproachfully. 

"Didn't  I?  Well,  I  don't  know  as  there  was  much 
to  write  about.  They  treated  me  well,  but  I  was  only 
there  one  night,  you  know." 

"Well,  you  met  the  daughter — what's  her  name,  by 
the  way?  I  suppose  she's  married, isn't  she?  And 
you  went  sailing  with  her." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Vaughan.  Yes,  I  did,  but  it  didn't 
seem  to  me  there  was  anything  very  interesting  about 
that.  How  did  you  know  I  went,  anyhow?" 

"Oh,  Nicholas  Purcell  told  me.  He's  been  here 
several  times.  He  said  his  sister  had  quite  fallen  in 
love  with  you." 

"With  me!  Well,  she  didn't  give  me  any  hint  of 
it.  She  subscribed  for  a  hundred  shares  of  Mallory, 
though." 

"Oh,  bother  Mallory.  Tell  me  about  her,  and 
what  kind  of  place  have  they?  I  suppose  it's  very 
grand?" 

"No,  it  isn't.  Just  a  big  old  house  that's  been  in 
the  family  for  a  couple  of  hundred  years  or  so,  and 

237 


THE   FORERUNNER 

when  Purcell  made  his  money  they  enlarged  it  and 
made  it  over  a  bit — but  it  isn't  grand.  It's  in  the 
Colonial  style,  more  or  less,  so  Mrs.  Vaughan  told  me. 
Candles  to  go  to  bed  by  and  your  great-grandfather's 
bed  to  sleep  in,  and  all  that.  Comfortable,  though. 
The  old  gentleman  was  still  in  bed  when  I  got  there, 
and  Mrs.  Vaughan  and  I  had  dinner  together.  Are 
you  jealous?" 

"Well,  and  you  didn't  mention  it!  What  did  you 
have  for  dinner?  Was  there  a  butler?  What  did 
she  have  on?  What  did  you  talk  about?" 

"Good  gracious,  how  can  I  remember?  The  din 
ner  was  good  enough.  There  was  a  man  to  wait  on 
us,  I  suppose  the  butler.  And  I  guess  we  talked  about 
Mallory  a  good  deal." 

"Well,  she  told  her  brother  you  were  the  most  in 
teresting  man  she'd  met  for  a  long  time!" 

"Oh,  she  was  interested  in  the  railroad  and  all  that. 
You  see,  she  subscribed.  And  Purcell  is  going  to  see 
the  thing  through,  I  think,  Anna!  The  railroad,  I 
mean.  He  told  me  to  go  ahead  and  get  the  traf 
fic  agreement  with  the  Union  Pacific  people;  and 
he's  coming  out  there  to  look  it  over  this  fall.  By 
Jove,  the  thing's  as  good  as  built  now — we're  all 
right!" 

"I  thought  it  was  the  smelter  he  was  going  to  help 
build." 

"That's  where  the  money  he's  just  paid  over  goes. 
They'll  push  the  work  right  ahead  now.  But  this 
other,  the  railroad,  is  a  private  deal  between  Purcell 
and  me.  I  had  the  first  survey  made  myself  and  the 
right  of  way  is  partly  secured.  I  shan't  let  those 
other  fellows  in." 

238 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Well,  how  long  will  it  take  to  build  it?" 

"Oh,  perhaps  a  year,  counting  the  preliminary 
work  that  has  to  be  done.  I've  got  to  go  straight 
back  and  begin  on  that." 

"How  soon  do  you  go  back?" 

"In  about  a  week.  I  must  spend  a  few  days  more 
in  Boston,  then  we're  off.  And  I  want  to  stop  on  the 
way  back  and  see  my  mother.  You  know  she  lives 
up  in  Wisconsin  now  with  one  of  my  brothers.  That'll 
mean  another  day  or  so,  but  I'll  have  to  do  it.  She 
felt  rather  hurt  that  I  didn't  stop  coming  East.  How 
would  you  like  to  go  to  a  theatre  to-night?" 

"What  theatre?"  said  Anna  absently.  She  was 
thinking  that  the  time  had  come  to  tell  Dan — but 
should  she  tell  him  definitely  that  she  intended  to 
stay,  or  only  that  she  had  thought  of  it? 

"Oh,  anything  you  like.  There  are  a  couple  of 
those  musical  shows  and  there's  that  English  actress. 
Waiter,  get  me  an  evening  paper,  will  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  murmured  the  functionary,  with  re 
spect  if  not  alacrity. 

When  the  paper  was  brought,  their  choice  nar 
rowed  down  to  a  war-drama  and  the  English  com 
pany's  problem  play,  Anna  declining  the  comic 
operas.  She  rather  urged  the  melodrama,  assuring 
Dan  that  it  was  more  his  sort,  but  Dan  was  not  to  be 
outdone  in  generosity. 

"That  means  you'd  rather  see  the  other,  and  this 
is  your  picnic,"  he  said.  "I  want  you  to  have  a  good 
time  to-night.  I  suppose  you've  been  lonely.  Did 
Mrs.  O'B.  come  to  see  you?" 

"No,  but  I  went  out  to  dinner  one  night  with  some 
body.  Guess  who." 

239 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Couldn't  guess.  I  didn't  know  you  knew  any 
body." 

"Nicholas  Purcell.    Are  you  jealous?" 

"Oh — I  guess  not.  I  didn't  know  you  knew  him 
well  enough  for  that,  though." 

"Well,  he  came  to  ask  you  and  me.  And  as  usual 
you  weren't  here — and  I  hadn't  money  enough  for  a 
decent  meal " 

She  stopped,  astonished  herself  at  the  sudden  flood 
of  bitterness  that  rose  in  her. 

Dan  flushed.  He  was  silent  while  he  folded  up  the 
newspaper  with  unnecessary  care  and  dropped  it  un 
der  the  table. 

"I  hope  you  had  a  good  time,"  he  said  then,  with 
an  effort  after  his  usual  manner.  "Where  did  you 
go?" 

"I  don't  know  the  name.  A  little  place  not  far 
from  here.  A  French  place,  very  quiet  and  nice. 
There  was  only  one  other  couple  there,  and  dinner 
lasted  two  hours  and  a  half!" 

Anna,  too,  made  an  effort  at  lightness.  Dan 
looked  at  her,  troubled,  a  sudden  spark  in  his  blue 
eyes. 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  ought  to  have  taken  you 
there,"  he  said.  "I'll  find  out." 

"Oh,  Dan!"  Anna  cried,  and  bit  her  lip.  It  would 
not  do  to  quarrel  here.  Dan  never  could  quarrel 
decorously.  She  threw  down  her  napkin.  "I  don't 
want  any  dessert.  Let's  go  upstairs.  I  want  to  tell 
you  something." 

"Very  well.  I'll  see  about  the  theatre- tickets, 
then  I'll  be  up." 

Anna,  walking  up  and  down  their  small  room,  tried 
240 


THE  FORERUNNER 

to  think  calmly,  tried  to  see  why  it  was  that  Dan's 
suspicion  of  Purcell  had  so  roused  her  own  feeling. 
She  only  knew  that  she  was  angry,  hurt,  miserable, 
that  everything  seemed  wretched.  In  such  a  mood 
how  could  she  spare  Dan?  As  soon  as  he  had  come 
in  and  lit  his  cigar,  she  began,  her  voice  trembling 
slightly. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  do  anything  absurd — or  say 
things  as  silly  as  that — about  'finding  out!'  There 
isn't  anything  to  'find  out.'  Mr.  Purcell  simply  took 
me  to  the  quietest  place  he  knew,  I  suppose.  He  is  a 
gentleman,  and  has  always  treated  me  with  perfect 
respect,  and  he  wouldn't  do  anything  that  you  or 
anybody  could  object  to." 

"How  do  you  know  he  wouldn't?" 

"Well,  I  do  know  it!    He  is— he  is " 

"Now,  Anna,  we've  got  wrong  on  this  thing.  I'm 
not  blaming  you,  I  had  no  idea  of  it,"  said  Dan  ear 
nestly.  "When  I  spoke  that  way  I  simply  meant 
that — well,  you  don't  know  the  world,  my  dear  girl. 
I  didn't  like  the  sound  of  it — just  at  the  minute. 
But  perhaps  it  is  all  right — and  I'm  sure  about  you. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  I  wasn't  blaming  you." 

Anna  avoided  his  caress.  She  sat  down  in  the 
easy-chair  and  said  very  coldly: 

"I  had  something  I  wanted  to  say.  It's  this:  I 
don't  want  to  go  to  Wyoming  this  winter." 

Dan  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  looked  at  her  per 
plexedly. 

"You  don't  want  to  go?    Why  not?" 

"I  want  to  stay  here  and  go  on  with  my  music. 

"But — couldn't  you  go  on  with  it  out  there?   You'll 

have  a  piano " 

241 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Piano !  I  want  a  teacher,  and  a  good  one.  I  want 
to  make  progress,  to  do  something  with  my  voice. 
What  could  I  do  in  a  one-horse  mining  town?" 

"Well,  Anna!" 

He  rose  and  in  his  turn  began  to  walk  the  room. 

"'This  is  a  complete  surprise  to  me.  You  want  to 
stay  in  New  York?  But — how  could  you?  7  can't 
be  here.  How  could  I  leave  you  here — alone?" 

Anna  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"Haven't  you  left  me  here  alone,  time  and  time 
again?  Didn't  you  leave  me  alone  in  Los  Angeles 
for  months?  How  do  I  know  that  you  won't  leave 
me  out  there  alone?  I  never  know  where  you're 
going  to  be — you  don't  know  yourself!" 

Dan  received  these  rapid  sentences  in  momentarily 
dumb  amazement. 

"But  Anna!  I  couldn't  help  it!  You  must  see 
yourself.  It  will  be  different  out  there.  We  shall 
have  a  house  at  River  City.  I  shall  be  there  most  of 
the  time " 

11  Most  of  the  time !  Then  you  admit  you'll  be  away 
part  of  the  time!" 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Anna.  You  can  see  that  I'll 
have  to  be.  With  a  big  deal  like  this  on  my  hands,  a 
great  many  people  to  see  about  it,  a  great  many  mat 
ters  to  arrange — of  course  I  shall  have  to  be  away  on 
short  trips.  But  surely — Why  you  should  feel  hurt 
about  it,  as  you  seem  to  be !  I'd  no  idea  you  de 
pended  on  me  so  much  as  that!" 

Anna  thrust  the  half-playful  suggestion  away 
fiercely. 

"I  wouldn't — if  I  had  anything  else!"  she  said. 
"But  out  there  I  wouldn't  have  anything." 

242 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Well,  if  you  feel  that  way — perhaps  you  could  go 
with  me  on  my  trips,  or  most  of  them " 

"I  don't  want  to!  That  isn't  what  I  want.  You 
can't  understand.  I  want  a  place  of  my  own,  some 
thing  settled,  some  peace  and  enjoyment  in  life!  I 
don't  want  to  live  here  and  there,  in  any  horrid  un 
comfortable  way,  never  knowing  where  I'm  to  be 
to-morrow!  You  are  happy  that  way,  but  I'm  miser 
able!  I've  been  miserable  almost  ever  since  we've 
been  married.  You're  always  telling  me  about  what 
we're  going  to  have  some  day.  I  don't  care  about 
that,  I  want  something  now." 

She  sat  upright  in  her  chair,  her  hands  clasping  the 
arms  tightly.  Her  voice  had  not  risen,  but  the  sharp 
ness  always  latent  in  its  clear  tones  now  made  it  un 
pleasant  to  the  ear.  A  single  electric  jet  beside  the 
bureau  was  lit.  Its  chilly  light  shone  directly  down 
on  her  blond  head.  Her  eyes  in  shadow  looked  black 
and  hard. 

Dan  stood  perfectly  still  where  her  last  sentence  had 
struck  him,  across  the  room  with  his  back  to  her,  his 
head  slightly  bent,  holding  the  cigar  between  the 
fingers  of  his  right  hand.  He  stood  there  while  the 
glowing  tip  of  the  cigar  gathered  a  perceptible  cover 
of  ashes. 

At  last  he  wheeled  and  came  quickly  toward  her. 

"You  don't  mean  that.  You  don't  mean  what 
you  say — all  that.  I  know  you  have  had  hard  things 
to  bear — I  know  you  haven't  had  things  the  way  you 
wanted  them — but  I  have  tried  to  make  it  as  easy  for 
you  as  I  could.  It  hasn't  been  easy " 

He  bent  over  her,  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  uncon 
sciously  appealing  to  the  great  solvent  that  had  such 

243 


THE  FORERUNNER 

power  with  himself.  At  just  the  touch  of  her,  his 
hurt  pride  yielded,  bowed  down  to  her.  His  voice 
became  imploring.  Anna,  erect,  hard,  repelled 
him,  though  passively.  Yet  she  too  moderated  her 
tone. 

"I  know,  but  you  don't  understand  how  it  has  been 
hard  for  me,"  she  said  tragically.  "It  was  a  terrible 
wrench,  losing  everything  as  we  did.  Everything 
seemed  to  go  at  once — everything  I  was  trying  to  do. 
And  I  haven't  been  able  to  do  anything  since.  It 
would  make  me  very  much  happier  if  I  could  use  my 
voice  some  way.  But  now  I  feel  that  that  is  being 
wasted  too — everything " 

Her  lips  trembled.  She  stopped,  gripping  the 
arms  of  the  chair  in  an  effort  not  to  cry. 

"Anna!  If  that  is  the  way  you  feel — tell  me  just 
what  you  want.  You  know  I  want  you  to  be  happy 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I  will  do  any 
thing  I  can.  Tell  me." 

He  dropped  down  on  the  floor  beside  her,  took  her 
hand  and  drew  it  to  his  lips. 

"Well,  I  have  told  you,"  she  said,  still  tragically. 
"I  want  to  stay  here  and  work.  I  could  live  quietly 
somewhere,  I  suppose.  And  I  think  another  year 
or  perhaps  less  would  do " 

A  silence.    Then  Dan  asked: 

"Have  you  any  idea  what  teacher  you  would  want? 
Do  you  know  anyone  here?" 

"Not  yet.  But  I  can  find  out.  Mr.  Purcell  gave 
me  some  names." 

"Oh,  you  asked  him  about  it?" 

"Yes,  I  asked  him." 

"Do  you  know  how  much  it  would  cost?" 
244 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  But  I  suppose  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  dollars  a  week." 

"And  how  would  you  live?" 

"I  suppose  in  a  boarding-house.  There  must  be 
plenty  of  cheap  ones.  Do  you  think — will  there  be 
money  enough  to  do  it?" 

"Oh,  money — yes,  I  guess  that  can  be  arranged. 
Though  there  won't  be  a  great  deal  to  spare  this  win 
ter " 

Anna  pulled  her  hand  away  with  an  impatient 
gesture. 

"Well,  can  you  spare  it  or  not?  Or  don't  you 
know?  If  you  do,  for  heaven's  sake  say  so.  It's 
just  what  I  can't  bear — this  everlasting  uncertainty 
— I  would  rather  go  out  there  and  live  in  a  shanty!" 

"I  don't  think  that  will  be  necessary,"  said  Dan 
more  sharply. 

He  got  up  and  began  walking  the  floor  again,  one 
hand  thrust  in  his  trousers'-pocket,  the  other  still 
holding  the  cigar.  Once  he  put  the  cigar  in  his  mouth 
and  found  it  had  gone  out,  but  still  continued  to  hold 
it  absently.  His  face,  slightly  frowning,  the  vertical 
fold  between  the  eyebrows  strongly  marked,  was 
grave  and  intent. 

Anna  laughed  a  little. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  take  it  so  seriously/'  she 
cried.  "It  isn't  such  a  tremendous  thing." 

"It  is  serious,  to  me,"  Dan  said,  coming  to  a  stop 
before  her.  "It's  a  serious  thing  to  me  to  leave  you 
absolutely  alone  in  this  big  city,  without  a  friend — 
when  I'm  to  be  a  week's  journey  away." 

"I  won't  be  without  a  friend,"  she  assured  him.  "I 
shall  know  some  people.  I  do  know  some  already." 

245 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"You  do?  Who?  The  O'Beirnes  won't  be 
here " 

"I'm  not  thinking  about  the  O'Beirnes.  There's" 
—  she  was  about  to  mention  Mrs.  Vaughan,  but 
recollected  that  she  had  not  yet  met  her — "Mr.  Pur- 
cell  said  his  sister  wanted  to  meet  me,  and  she  will  be 
in  town  soon." 

"Are  you  counting  on  them — that  crowd?"  de 
manded  Dan.  "I  hope  not." 

"Well,  why  not?" 

"Because  they're  not  our  sort.  They're  fashiona 
ble  people,  I  suppose.  Anyhow  they  have  their  own 
friends  and  their  own  ways — and  they're  not  ours.  I 
don't  believe  they'll  do  you  any  good,  Anna,  even  if 
you  see  them." 

"I  don't  see  why  they're  not  my  sort!  Do  you 
mean  I'm  not  good  enough  to  associate  with  them?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool.  You  know  what  I  mean.  They 
won't  take  the  trouble  to  find  out  whether  you  are  or 
not.  I  know  what  these  Eastern  people  are — they 
think  the  Lord  never  made  anything  good  but  what 
they've  got.  That  young  Purcell  is  an  example. 
Father  told  me  he  never  did  a  stroke  of  work  in  his 
life  and  never  will.  If  that's  what  their  money  comes 
to,  that  sort  of  fellow,  loafing  round  Europe  and  think 
ing  this  country  isn't  good  enough  for  him — well,  the 
less  we  see  of  'em  the  better." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  Anna  said  hotly.  "I 
think  the  only  use  of  money  is  to  let  people  live  de 
cently  and  get  some  cultivation  and  knowledge  of  the 
world.  You  don't  get  that  by  grubbing  away  in  a 
corner.  And  I  hope  I  shall  see  those  people.  They're 
the  kind  I  like.  I  like  Nicholas  Purcell.  He's  in- 

246 


THE   FORERUNNER 

teresting.  And  he's  kind  too,  and  understands 
things.  But  I  don't  care  whether  I  see  them  or  not, 
I  want  to  stay." 

She  sprang  up. 

"I  would  rather  live  in  the  poorest  place  here  than 
go  back  out  there.  I  hate  the  idea  of  the  West.  And 
if  you  can't  give  me  money  enough  to  study,  I  can 
get  some  kind  of  position.  I  can  support  myself, 
while  I  am  training.  And  after  that  I  shall  have 
enough." 

"After  what?" 

"After  I  am  fitted  for  concert-singing — or  the 
stage." 

"The  stage!  You're  crazy,  Anna.  Do  you  think 
I  would  let  you  go  on  the  stage?" 

"I  don't  care  whether  you  would  let  me  or  not!" 
she  panted.  "I  shall  do  exactly  as  I  choose.  You 
would  like  to  prevent  me  from  living  at  all.  It  was 
your  fault  that  our  home  was  broken  up,  and  that  I 
have  to  help  myself  now.  If  you  had  not  been  reck 
less  it  wouldn't  have  happened.  And  I  had  given 
it  all  up  to  please  you — to  marry  you.  And  you  de 
ceived  me.  When  you  married  me  you  didn't  let  me 
know  what  chances  you  were  taking.  And  now — 
and  now — how  do  I  know  that  it  won't  be  just  the 
same  over  again?  I  don't  believe  you  will  succeed 

"And  when  you  say  you  are  afraid  to  leave  me 
alone!  I  am  used  to  being  left  alone!  When  you 
left  me  in  Los  Angeles  people  insulted  me  because  of 
it!  Yes,  insulted  me!  A  man  tried  to  make  love 
to  me,  and  he  said  everybody  thought  we  had  sepa 
rated — that  I  had  gone  back  to  my  parents " 

"Stop!"  said  Dan. 

247 


THE  FORERUNNER 

He  seized  both  her  wrists  and  held  her  quiet,  and 
his  eyes  held  hers  and  checked  her  hysterical  passion. 

"Who  was  the  man — if  there's  any  sense  in  what 
you  say?" 

"It  was  De  Ronde,  if  you  want  to  know.  And  even 
here — you  say  it  was  insulting  me,  to  take  me  out  to 
dinner " 

"I  didn't  say  it.    If  I  thought  it " 

Anna  stared  at  him.  He  looked  as  she  had  never 
seen  him.  He  was  deadly  pale,  and  his  eyes,  looking 
straight  into  hers,  seemed  not  to  see  her.  His  hold 
on  her  wrists  relaxed,  his  hands  dropped.  And  still 
his  eyes  held  hers,  vacant  themselves,  as  though  all 
sense  had  been  crushed  out  of  the  brain  behind  them. 
Suddenly  he  put  out  one  hand  gropingly  and  took 
hold  of  the  back  of  a  chair.  His  gaze  shifted.  He 
seemed  to  be  looking  at  the  crimson  roses  which  filled 
a  vase  on  the  bureau.  Near  the  vase  lay  a  little  paper 
envelope  containing  the  theatre-tickets.  Dan  stared 
at  that  for  some  moments. 

At  last  he  moved,  went  over  to  the  bureau,  took  up 
the  envelope,  tore  it  in  two  and  threw  the  pieces  on 
the  floor.  And  then,  without  looking  again  at  Anna, 
who  still  stood  defiant,  he  took  his  hat  and  coat  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 


248 


VII. 

A  NNA  sat  in  the  white-and-gilt  parlor  talking  to 
•^•^  Flora  O'Beirne.  That  is,  Flora  was  doing  the 
talking.  A  few  questions  had  given  her  the  informa 
tion  that  Daniel  had  gone  back  to  Boston,  that  he  had 
nearly  completed  his  work  there  and  that  it  had  gone 
to  his  satisfaction;  and,  apropos  of  what  she  called  his 
success,  Flora  described  the  "wild-goose  chase"  on 
which  the  Colonel  and  herself  had  been  wasting  their 
time  in  Washington.  A  certain  Senator  who  had  large 
investments  in  Mexico  had  been  over  their  Mexican 
lands  some  months  before  and  had  practically  prom 
ised  Colonel  O'Beirne  to  help  build  his  railroad.  He 
had  certainly  been  very  much  interested.  And  now 
they  could  not  even  get  sight  of  him. 

"He  wouldn't  see  us!  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
And  in  reply  to  Michael's  letter  his  secretary  just 

wrote  that  Senator  H couldn't  give  any  attention 

to  the  matter."  Flora  sighed.  "So  heaven  knows 
how  long  we  shall  be  here.  Your  husband  is  a  mighty 
clever  man,  don't  you  think  so,  my  dear?  He  got 
what  he  wanted  in  no  time.  It's  sure,  isn't  it,  that 
the  road  will  be  built  out  there?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  thinks  so,"  said  Anna. 

"And  this  Boston  man  puts  up  the  money." 

"I  believe  so." 

"Well,  there  it  is.  I'm  glad,  delighted.  And  yet 
249 


THE   FORERUNNER 

I  dare  say  your  husband  had  to  work  like  a  slave  to 
get  it.  It's  just  as  Michael  says.  Capital  is  as  coy  as 
a  pretty  woman,  and  takes  an  everlasting  amount  of 
wooing!"  Flora  laughed.  "You  see  a  woman,  if  a 
man's  enough  in  love  with  her,  knows  she  can  just 
sit  quiet  and  let  him  do  the  worrying,  she  knows  he 
has  to  have  her.  Well,  it's  so  with  these  moneyed 
people:  they  know  we  have  to  have  their  money — 
and  they  make  us  work  for  it — Lord!  the  months  that 
Michael  and  I  have  spent — the  thousands  of  miles 

we  have  travelled — the  amount  he  has  talked ! 

And  all  to  convince  some  old  Money-Bags  that  he 
can  make  another  fortune  if  he'll  only  turn  over  his 
hand.  But  Daniel — you  don't  mind  my  calling  him 
Daniel,  do  you?  I'm  almost  old  enough  to  be  his 
mother — Daniel  has  a  gift  for  convincing  people.  I 
thought  Michael  could  talk,  but,  my  dear,  your  hus 
band  has  a  way  with  him !  I  should  expect  him 

to  get  anything  he'd  set  his  heart  on.  I  like  him — 
Michael  and  I  both  like  him  tremendously.  Do  you 
think  we'll  ever  see  you  down  in  Mexico?  It  is  a 
beautiful  country  really — now  that  the  Apaches  are 
all  good  Indians.'' 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  Anna  said  languidly. 
"You  don't  really  expect  me  to  tell  you  where  he'll 
be  next  year — or  next  month — do  you?" 

"Oh,  I  know,  that's  the  worst  of  it,"  sighed  Flora. 
"A  woman  wants  a  roof  over  her  head,  doesn't  she? 
It's  true,  as  Michael  says,  we're  all  like  the  house-cat. 
We  like  the  chimney  corner  and  a  place  we're  used 
to.  But  then  what  of  it?  As  the  old  song  says, 

'What'll  ye  do  if  ye  marry  a  sojer, 
But  pack  up  your  clothes  and  go  marchin'  wid  him!'  " 
250 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Anna  was  silent,  only  smiling  mechanically.  She 
could  not  echo  the  cheerfulness  of  Flora's  tone;  even 
to  speak  was  an  effort  to  her.  She  had  passed  the 
night  without  sleep,  except  for  a  miserable  doze  after 
daylight,  haunted  and  broken  by  the  listening  for 
Dan's  step.  He  had  not  come.  But  early  in  the 
morning  he  had  sent  a  messenger,  with  a  note  asking 
for  his  suit-case  packed  for  a  few  days'  stay,  and  say 
ing  that  he  would  write  her  from  Boston.  The  note, 
with  what  she  had  come  to  consider  his  habitual  care 
lessness,  enclosed  two  hundred-dollar  bank  bills. 

Anna's  paleness  and  heavy  eyes  had  not  escaped 
her  visitor's  notice. 

"I  came  to  ask  you  to  take  lunch  with  me,"  Flora 
said,  "but  you  look  tired.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  not 
go  out." 

"Oh,  yes,  I'd  like  it.  I  didn't  sleep  very  well;  but 
I'd  like  to  go."  Anna  was  even  eager  in  her  ac 
ceptance.  She  wanted  some  relief  from  her  thoughts. 

"Well,  I'm  very  glad.  I  came  right  over  because 
I've  learned  to  take  people  I  want  to  see  on  the  fly, 
as  you  might  say.  Have  to,  in  our  way  of  life,  or  I'd 
never  see  anybody.  And  I've  got  so  used  to  dropping 
the  frills  and  trying  to  make  acquaintance  with  peo 
ple  on  the  spot  that  I'm  sure  they  often  think  I'm 
pushing!  But  it  isn't  so,  my  dear,  it's  just  lack  of 
time.  That's  the  reason  I  talk  about  myself  so  much. 
It's  because  I  want  to  hear  about  other  people." 

Her  soft  bright  dark  eyes  looked  very  kindly  on 
Anna. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  been  more  interested  than 
I  am  in  you  two,"  she  went  on.  "Your  husband  is 
such  a  fine  fellow,  and  you're — well,  I  partly  like  you, 

251 


THE  FORERUNNER 

I  suppose,  because  you're  beautiful.  The  Lord  made 
me  plain,  but  I  can  honestly  admire  another  woman 
who  is  beautiful,  and  like  her  the  better  for  it.  And 

then  you're  young — you  have  such  a  chance !   But 

you're  reserved,  you  won't  tell  me  about  yourself — 
and  the  time  is  so  short.  You'll  be  going  soon.  And 
unless  you'll  come  down  to  Mexico  I  shall  never  know 
anything  about  you!" 

"Oh,  but  there  isn't  much  to  tell,"  said  Anna, 
touched  in  spite  of  herself  by  this  real  interest,  and 
rather  wishing  she  could  respond  to  it.  She  was  in 
fact  naturally  perfectly  frank,  so  long  as  she  could 
be  so  without  wound  or  compromise  to  her  vanity. 
She  would  cheerfully  have  talked  about  herself  and 
her  circumstances  to  the  exclusion  of  anything  else, 
if  only  she  could  have  painted  her  subject  in  bright 
colors.  But  when  she  had  ceased  to  be  prosperous 
and  happy  she  had  ceased  also  to  be  frank.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  her  to  talk  about  Dan,  his 
affairs  and  her  quarrels  with  life,  with  Flora  O'Beirne's 
candor.  Flora  could  be  candid  because  at  bottom 
she  had  no  quarrel  with  life.  She  could  rally  her 
husband,  with  what  seemed  to  Anna  an  amazing  lack 
of  reticence,  because  at  bottom  she  was  contented 
with  him.  But  Anna  felt  that  decorum  must  be 
preserved  at  all  hazards.  She  was  not  going  to  let 
anybody  know,  if  she  could  help  it,  that  she  had  quar 
relled  with  Dan.  And  just  now  she  felt  more  than 
ever  that  she  was  on  thin  ice;  she  was  fearful  of  a 
single  step.  The  events  of  the  night  had  thrown  her 
mind  into  confusion.  She  had  gone  too  far,  and  the 
recoil  left  her  with  a  sick  feeling  of  uncertainty  about 
everything.  She  did  not  want  to  talk  about  Dan  or 

252 


THE  FORERUNNER 

herself.  And  as  for  her  plans  and  the  advice  she  had 
gone  to  ask  of  Mrs.  O'Beirne,  there  was  no  use  talking 
about  that  now.  The  advice  would  come  from  some 
body  else.  So  she  said,  rather  petulantly :  "My  head 
aches,  and  I  can't  talk  very  well  now.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  walk  a  while  before  lunch?  We  might  walk 
up  to  the  Park  and  back." 

Accordingly  it  was  again  Flora  who  talked,  during 
their  walk,  their  luncheon  and  the  afternoon  that  they 
spent  together.  An  eye  less  keen  than  hers  could 
have  seen  that  Anna  was  in  mental  stress,  unable 
really  to  listen  or  to  talk,  and  yet  unwilling  to  be  left 
alone.  So  she  took  Anna  to  see  some  pictures  and  an 
exhibit  of  Japanese  wood-carvings ;  gave  her  tea,  and 
asked  her  to  dine  with  the  Colonel  and  herself  at  their 
hotel. 

But  this  Anna  was  unable  to  do.  Fatigue  due  to 
sleeplessness  and  worry  finally  overpowered  her. 

"I  can't  keep  my  eyes  open,"  she  confessed.  "I'll 
just  go  to  bed,  I  think.  Couldn't  eat  any  dinner, 
anyway,  after  all  that  tea." 

"Well,  then,  to-morrow  night,  if  your  husband 
doesn't  get  back?  Or  if  he  does,  for  that  matter — 
we'll  be  delighted  to  have  you  both." 

Anna  gave  a  promise  for  next  night,  subject  to 
recall  by  telephone,  and  they  parted  at  the  door  of 
her  hotel. 

"You've  been  very  good,  taking  me  round  when 
I'm  so  stupid,"  Anna  said,  smiling  painfully. 

Flora  answered  affectionately,  and  standing  on 
tip-toe,  kissed  her. 

She  had  thought  that  Purcell  would  very  likely 
call  on  her  that  afternoon,  and  had  been  willing  for 

253 


THE  FORERUNNER 

once  not  to  see  him.  And  in  fact  she  found  his  card, 
and  found  also  that  she  regretted  not  seeing  him. 
There  was  no  sign  from  Dan.  She  thought  he  might 
have  written  before  he  went  to  Boston,  or  just  pos 
sibly  he  might  have  changed  his  mind  and  come  back. 
She  took  out  his  brief  note  and  read  it  again.  It  be 
gan  with  the  usual  formula,  "Dear  Anna";  it  gave 
no  clew  to  his  feeling  when  he  wrote  it.  But  he  must 
be  deeply  angry  with  her.  In  all  their  other  quar 
rels  he  had  been  so  eager  to  be  reconciled,  he  had  al 
ways  made  the  first  concession,  taken  the  first  step. 
To  be  on  bad  terms  with  her  had  made  him  so  utterly 
miserable  that  he  could  not  endure  it  long.  Often 
had  he  kept  her  awake  all  night  arguing  some  point 
at  issue  rather  than  lie  down  in  anger.  Never,  never 
before  had  he  put  himself  out  of  the  way  of  seeing 
her,  of  being  reconciled  to  her.  And,  of  course,  she 
had  never  before  given  him  such  reason. 

In  spite  of  her  fatigue  she  spent  a  restless  night, 
and  in  the  morning  took  her  breakfast  in  bed.  Two 
letters  were  brought  to  her,  and  she  opened  Dan's 
first.  It  was  almost  as  brief  as  his  note  of  the  day 
before.  He  wrote: 

"DEAR  ANNA: 

"Only  one  thing  is  clear  to  me  just  now,  that  you 
must  do  from  now  on  exactly  as  you  wish,  as  nearly 
as  possible.  If  you  will  find  out  what  arrangements 
you  wish  to  make  for  staying  in  New  York  I  should 
like  to  see  you  settled  before  I  leave  for  Wyoming, 
which  will  be  on  Tuesday,  I  expect.  I  can  arrange 
to  send  you  two  hundred  dollars  a  month,  and  if  that 
is  not  enough,  will  try  to  meet  whatever  is  necessary. 

254 


THE  FORERUNNER 

I  expect  to  reach  New  York  Tuesday  morning  and  to 
leave  for  the  West  Tuesday  night.— D.  D." 

She  read  it  twice,  flushing  hotly,  then  tossed  it 
from  her.  If  that  was  the  way  Dan  meant  to  take 
it — if  he  kept  that  attitude — why,  then,  she  would 
simply  try  to  make  herself  independent  of  him  at 
once.  It  was  true  she  had  given  him  cause  to  be  hurt 
and  angry,  she  had  said  hard  things,  but  after  all — 
they  were  true,  most  of  them.  She,  not  Dan,  was 
the  injured  person;  and  though  she  had  felt  momen 
tarily  in  the  wrong,  if  he  now  took  a  high  and  mighty 
tone  and  aimed  at  keeping  her  there,  she  would — she 
would 

She  opened  the  thick  envelope  addressed  in  Pur- 
cell's  writing.  It  contained  several  enclosures,  letters 
and  a  telegram,  all  bearing  on  the  subject  which  he 
had  in  hand  for  her.  His  own  note  was  of  the  briefest. 
It  said  only  that  he  had  been  very  sorry  to  miss  her 
that  afternoon  and  that  he  hoped  to  be  more  fortunate 
on  the  morrow,  when  he  expected  to  bring  her  some 
information  more  authentic  than  his  various  corre 
spondents  could  furnish. 

Really  he  was  taking  any  amount  of  trouble  for  her. 

If  there  were  many  people  as  kind  as  that !  But 

people  were  generally  not  kind  unless  they  were  in 
terested.  Was  he  really  interested  in  her,  and  why, 
she  asked  herself  naively.  Anna  had  leaped  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other,  in  her  estimate  of  her  own  at 
traction  and  power.  Measuring  herself  against  what 
she  had  seen  of  the  women  of  an  older  civiliza 
tion,  she  felt  crude,  bare,  and  rather  humble.  The 
emphasis  now  lay,  in  her  mind,  on  what  she  had  not, 

255 


THE  FORERUNNER 

rather  than  on  what  she  had.  And  she  was  corre 
spondingly  pleased  and  moved  by  anything  that 
seemed  to  show  she  had  a  value  in — well,  the  eyes  of 
Purcell,  for  example  of  what  she  now  felt  was  best 
worth  pleasing.  Since  their  talk  at  dinner  she  had 
felt,  not  that  she  knew  much  about  Purcell,  but  that 
for  some  reason  he  wanted  her  to  know  about  him. 
He  had  talked  frankly  about  himself.  But  every 
thing  he  said,  in  one  way,  helped  to  set  him  away 
from  her.  His  experience,  so  completely  beyond  her 
knowledge,  and  so  varied,  seemed  to  make  him  a  being 
of  really  a  different  order  from  any  she  had  known. 
She  felt  timidity  in  face  of  this  superiority  of  his,  and, 
strangely,  she  liked  to  feel  it.  She  had  no  idea  of  try 
ing  to  impress  or  dazzle  him;  wistfully  she  acknowl 
edged  that  that  was  beyond  her  power;  but  she  did 
want  keenly  that  he  should  like  her  a  little — and  per 
haps  he  did  like  her. 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  she  lay  thinking  about  him 
— for  Purcell's  note  had  for  the  moment  driven  her 
trouble  with  Dan  out  of  her  mind.  But  she  came 
back  to  it  with  a  throb  of  pain  through  Dan's  criti 
cism  of  Purcell.  Was  it  possible  that  Purcell  had 
really  not  treated  her  well — as  he  would  have  treated 
any  one  of  the  other  women  he  knew?  She  flushed 
crimson  at  the  thought.  If  it  were  so,  Dan  was  right 
to  be  angry,  and  she  had  been  wrong  to  be  so  moved 
by  what  he  said. 

And  anyway  she  had  been  wrong.  She  came  back 
miserably  to  that  conclusion.  And  it  tormented  her 
so,  the  feeling  that  she  had  behaved  badly,  that  she 
rose,  put  on  a  dressing-gown  and  sat  down  to  write  to 
Dan. 

256 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Anna  was  not  skilful  with  her  pen;  expression  was 
always  difficult  to  her.  She  wrote  only  a  few  sen 
tences,  and  they  seemed  very  lame,  as  she  read  them 
over.  It  seemed  cold  and  ungracious,  too,  to  say 
simply  that  she  was  sorry  for  what  she  had  said  the 
other  night  and  that  she  hadn't  meant  it.  But  even 
that  was  really  more  than  she  felt,  for  she  had  meant 
it.  She  couldn't  take  back  what  she  had  said, 
warmly,  completely,  asking  his  forgiveness,  making 
him  feel  her  regret.  She  did  regret  her  outburst,  but 
it  had  been  only  the  sign  of  a  deep  estrangement,  of 
her  passionate  criticism  and  dislike  of  what  he  really 
stood  for.  So  she  sealed  the  stiff  little  note  and  sent 
it  off;  and  went  back  to  bed  and  cried  miserably 
over  the  whole  situation. 

What  was  to  become  of  her — what  could  she  do 
with  herself?  She  had  made  Dan  unhappy,  she  was 
unhappy  herself,  and  she  could  not  see  how  they  were 
to  go  on  living  together,  at  least  for  the  present.  And 
yet,  to  separate!  A  separation  was  hardly  one  shade  . 
better  than  a  divorce;  in  other  words  it  was  some 
thing  almost  unimaginable  from  Anna's  point  of  view. 
Either  one  was,  in  the  opinion  of  the  community  in 
which  she  had  grown  up,  a  thing  not  respectable,  not 
possible  without  forfeiting  all  standing  in  that  com 
munity.  Consequently  it  was  not  so  much  Anna's 
opinion  as  something  much  more  deeply  vital  in  her, 
that  revolted  at  the  idea  of  such  a  thing  happening 
to  herself.  In  the  society  she  knew,  it  was  almost 
better  to  have  a  relative  in  the  penitentiary,  or  on 
the  stage,  than  to  be  divorced.  And  though  she  was  I 
no  longer  a  part  of  that  society,  its  ideals,  in  all  that 
related  to  "morals,"  had  never  for  a  moment  been 

257 


THE   FORERUNNER 

doubted  by  her  to  be  the  best,  in  fact  the  only  ones, 
possible.  And  the  dreadful  thing  was,  that  unless 
her  quarrel  with  Dan  could  be  patched  up,  they  would 
really  be  "separated";  whereas,  if  she  remained  in 
New  York  with  his  permission,  it  would  be  an  entirely 
different  matter.  Of  all  the  statements  she  had 
made  in  her  anger,  the  least  true  was  that  it  didn't 
matter  whether  she  had  his  permission  or  not.  So 
far  was  this  from  being  true,  that  Anna  now  saw  in  a 
flash  that  if  she  could  not  get  Dan's  approval  of  her 
staying,  she  would  prefer  to  go  back  with  him.  As 
soon  as  this  was  clear  to  her  she  had  a  sense  of  relief, 
almost  of  comfort.  Yes,  that  was  the  only  way  out. 
Dan  must  decide  it.  She  would  go  on  and  get  all  the 
information,  as  he  had  suggested.  Then,  if  he  still 
objected  to  her  staying,  she  might  be  unhappy,  but 
she  would  yield.  The  responsibility  would  then  be 
his,  and  he  could  not  blame  her. 

Peace  of  mind  came  suddenly  with  this  decision, 
and  Anna  composed  herself  and  slept  soundly  for  the 
first  time  since  the  quarrel.  Her  last  thought  as  she 
fell  asleep  was  that  she  must  not  show  the  marks  of 
tears  and  fatigue  when  Purcell  came  that  afternoon. 

In  fact,  this  past  emotion  left  no  trace  except  per 
haps  a  certain  chastened  look,  which  had  its  own 
radiance  and  attraction.  A  brisk  walk  after  luncheon 
in  the  open  air  revived  her  color  and  spirits;  though 
in  the  course  of  it  she  had  had  a  somewhat  unpleasant 
experience.  Determining  to  lose  no  more  time  in 
finding  a  possible  place  to  live,  she  had  cut  out  some 
advertisements  of  boarding-places  from  the  morning 
paper,  and  she  went  to  inquire  at  an  address  on 

258 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Thirty-ninth  Street.  This  place  promised  "high- 
class  accommodations"  and  "strictly  refined  patron 
age,"  and  Anna  thought  she  might  see  what  this 
desirable  combination  would  cost.  But  when  the 
colored  butler  had  summoned  the  landlady,  and  this 
imposing  black-robed  personage  had  studied  Anna 
for  a  few  moments  and  found  out  that  she  would 
have  a  piano  and  practise  two  or  three  hours  a  day, 
she  coldly  said  that  there  were  no  rooms  vacant. 
Anna  went  away  much  flustered,  and  it  took  a  long 
walk  to  restore  her  equanimity.  She  decided  that 
she  would  postpone  further  investigation  until  Flora 
O'Beirne  could  go  with  her,  or  at  least  advise  her 
where  to  go. 

Purcell  brought  her  the  name  and  address  of  a 
teacher  vouched  for  by  his  friend  the  musical  critic. 

"Walton  says  he's  an  admirable  person  if  you  want 
to  study  hard  and  thoroughly.  He  isn't  at  all  popu 
lar,  has  no  pull  and  of  course  isn't  expensive.  In 
fact  he's  never  got  really  started  here,  and  very  likely 
never  will.  Walton  knew  him  in  Leipzig.  He  speaks 
very  little  English,  is  excessively  nervous,  irritable 
and  brusque,  and  drives  most  of  his  pupils  away  in 

one  fashion  or  another.  I'm  quoting  Walton " 

Purcell  had  a  little  note-book  open  in  his  hand,  and 
showed  her  a  page  dotted  with  cryptic  scrawls.  "I 
made  sure  of  not  missing  a  single  point.  'No  mag 
netism,  enthusiasm  or  way  of  seeming  to  help  you 
along.  Only  helps  those  who  help  themselves.  Will 
tell  you  the  stern  truth.  Loses  most  of  his  pupils 
that  way.  Suicidal  temper.  Will  cry  at  times  and 
tell  you  he  intends  to  cut  his  throat.  Can  thoroughly 
recommend  him/  ...  If  you're  not  frightened 

259 


THE  FORERUNNER 

off,  Walton  will  send  a  note  to  Herr  Pannier  and  he 
will  do  all  he  can  for  you.  You'll  find  him  any  morn 
ing  at  his  studio — he  has  a  good  deal  of  leisure." 

"It  sounds  like  just  what  I  want/'  Anna  said.  "I 
want  to  work  hard.  I'll  take  down  his  address — " 
Purcell  wrote  it  out  on  a  loose  leaf  of  his  notebook 
and  gave  it  to  her — "and  thank  you  a  hundred  times. 
Really  I  shouldn't  have  known  what  to  do  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you." 

Purcell  smiled.  "I'm  very  glad.  I'll  tell  Walton 
then  to  write  the  note,  shall  I?" 

Anna  hesitated  and  stammered. 

"Perhaps — it  would  be  better  to  wait  a  day  or  so. 
You  see — I'm  not  absolutely  certain  yet.  There's  a 
chance  that  I  may — not  be  here.  If  it  turns  out  that 
you've  had  all  this  trouble  for  nothing,  what  mill  you 
think  of  me?" 

"It  won't  be  for  nothing,  in  any  case.  I  liked  doing 
it,  you  see." 

"But  I  shall  know  now  very  soon.  ...  I  hate 
not  to  know  what  I'm  going  to  do,  don't  you?" 

"I  hate  not  to  know  what  I  want  to  do.  But  per 
haps  it's  the  same  thing?" 

"Oh — I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  it  isn't,  for  me. 
It  must  be  heavenly  to  be  able  to  do  just  what  you 
want,  and  only  have  to  make  up  your  mind  what 
that  is." 

"Ah,  but  you  oughtn't  to  have  to  make  up  your 
mind.  It  ought  to  be  made  up  for  you.  If  it's  only 
with  your  mind  that  you  know  what  you  want — why, 
you're  apt  not  to  know  at  all,  and  that's  far  from 
being  heavenly — quite  the  other  thing,  in  fact." 

"But — in  case  you  didn't  know  what  you  wanted, 
260 


THE  FORERUNNER 

it  would  mean  that  you  had  so  much!  .  .  .  That 
you  could  have  anything  you  liked  to  have.  .  .  . 
It  would  mean  that  you  had  a  choice  among  pleasant 
things.  .  .  .  But  when  you  know  definitely  what 
you  want,  it  means  that  there's  an  unpleasant  alter 
native,  don't  you  think  so?  And  that  very  likely 
you'll  have  to  take  that."  Anna  proposed  these 
sentiments  gravely,  thinking  them  out  slowly,  and  a 
little  triumphant  in  her  conclusion.  "So  it  is  better 
not  to  know  your  own  mind." 

"But  what  good  are  the  things  you  have,  if  you 
don't  know  whether  you  want  them  or  not?  How 
can  you  get  any  pleasure  out  of  what  you  are,  if 
you're  not  sure  you  wouldn't  rather  be  something 
different?" 

"Yes,  but  you  can  try  to  be  different — to  be  what 
you  want  to  be." 

"Of  course,  if  you're  sure  you  want  to  be  it.  But 
there  again  you  must  know  what  you  want.  In  fact, 
you  see,  you  can't  be  anything  in  particular  without 
making  up  your  mind  to  it,  and  even  then  you  can't 
unless  your  mind  is  made  up  for  you  too!" 

"But  it  isn't  necessary  to  be  anything  in  particular 
— I  mean,  to  do  anything — in  order  to  enjoy  life,  is  it? 
And  we  agreed  that  was  the  best  thing — to  enjoy." 

"I'm  not  sure  we  agreed.  I've  tried  it,  you  know 
— I  mean  doing  nothing " 

"But  of  course  I  didn't  mean  that!  You  seem  to 
me  to  have  done  more  than  anybody  I  know,  and  yet 
you  say  you  have  only  tried  to  enjoy  life.  I  think 
that  is  the  only  way  to  do  and  be  anything  interesting. 
How  can  you  be  yourself  at  all  if  you  don't  do  what 
you  want?" 

261 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Yes — to  do  what  you  want!  So  we're  back  where 
we  started  from,  aren't  we?" 

"I  suppose  so " 

"Do  you  know  what  you  want  just  now?" 

Anna  pondered,  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
troubled,  shining  eyes. 

"I'm— not  sure  I  do." 

"Then,  according  to  your  theory  it  must  be  because 
you  have  an  embarrassment  of  riches  to  choose  from." 

"Oh,  no.     It  isn't  that,"  she  declared  positively. 

"Then  what  becomes  of  your  theory?  You're  quite 
wrong,  you  see.  And  meantime,  here  are  you  and  I 
— two  people  with  not  a  single  mind  apparently.  It's 
distressing.  I  wish  I  could  help  you  out.  How  can 
you  expect  to  get  what  you  want  when  you  don't 
know " 

"I  know  it,"  she  murmured  with  a  melancholy 
look.  "It  is  terrible." 

"It's  very  unsatisfactory  trusting  to  chance  or 
somebody  else  to  decide  these  matters.  You  might 
find  out  when  it  was  too  late  that  you  had  got  the 
wrong  thing,  and  had  really  known  it  all  along " 

"Yes,  I  might,"  she  nodded  sadly,  and  suddenly 
he  saw  the  tears  well  up  in  her  eyes. 

He  was  nonplussed  for  a  moment — he  had  not 
meant  his  idle  play  to  have  any  real  personal  applica 
tion.  But  he  turned  it  quickly. 

"I'll  help  you  to  make  up  your  mind,  shall  I?  Tell 
me  what  you  think  you  want,  and  I'll  argue  against 
it  with  all  my  might  and  main." 

"Well,  I  think  I  want  to  stay  in  New  York  and  study 
singing,"  said  Anna  with  a  wan  smile,  getting  rid  of 
the  tears. 

262 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  I've  innumerable  arguments  against  that.  So 
many  and  such  strong  ones  that  if  after  you  hear 
them  you  have  the  faintest  desire  to  stay  you  can  be 
quite  sure  you  want  it  tremendously!  But  I'm  afraid 
it's  too  late  to  begin  on  them  now — it  must  be  a  good 
deal  after  six."  He  rose  with  some  unwillingness. 

"I  wish I  could  ask  you  to  dine  with  us.  But 

Mr.  Devin  isn't  here,  and — and  then  I  promised  to 
take  dinner  with  Mrs.  O'Beirne." 

A  sort  of  panic  impelled  Anna  to  mention  this.  She 
did  not  know  whether  Purcell  might  not  expect  her 
to  ask  him  to  dinner — or  perhaps  he  might  be  sur 
prised  if  she  did  ask  him.  A  moment  later  she  re 
gretted  having  put  it  out  of  her  power  to  do  so. 

"Ah,  then  there's  no  hope  for  me/'  he  said,  and 
somehow  he  conveyed  the  impression  of  disappoint 
ment. 

"But  I  hope  I  shall  see  you  again — before  I  go,  if  I 
do  go,"  she  said. 

"It  won't  be  so  sudden  as  that  anyway,  will  it? 
Fm  going  away  for  a  few  days,  but  if  you'll  send  a 
note  to  the  University  Club,  so  that  I  can  let  Walton 
know — that  is,  if  you  want  him  to  write  Pannier — 
and  I  hope  you  will  want  it." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Anna. 


263 


VIII. 

Anna  came  back  to  her  room  about  mid- 
night,  after  dinner  and  a  theatre  with  the 
O'Beirnes,  she  found  Dan  sitting  in  the  easy-chair 
under  the  electric  light,  asleep.  The  pages  of  the 
evening  newspapers  were  scattered  on  the  floor.  His 
head  was  bent  forward,  and  Anna,  standing  near  him 
for  a  moment,  noticed  with  surprise  how  gray  he  was 
growing.  Then  she  spoke  to  him,  and  he  woke  with 
a  start. 

"Why,  Anna — you're  back  at  last  ...  I  was 
asleep,  I  guess."  He  passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes 
and  got  up  wearily.  "I  didn't  sleep  much  last  night, 
and  I've  been  waiting  for  you  since  about  seven. 

}) 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming? 
I  didn't  expect  you  till  Tuesday.  I've  been  to  din 
ner  with  the  O'Beirnes.  Have  you  had  dinner?" 
asked  Anna,  taking  off  her  hat  and  gloves. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  got  something.  I  decided  to  come  on 
and  see  you  and  then  go  back,  and  go  West  directly 
from  Boston.  I  wanted  to  get  it  settled,  about  you 
.  .  .  it  worried  me.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  tired  and  worried,  and  older,  Anna 
thought.  His  hair  was  certainly  much  grayer  than 
she  had  noticed  it  to  be  before;  it  was  almost  white 
just  at  the  temples.  And  the  lines  about  his  eyes 

264 


THE  FORERUNNER 

were  more  marked,  showing  plainly  at  the  distance 
they  kept  from  one  another.  He  kicked  the  news 
papers  out  of  his  way,  went  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room  and  began  walking  up  and  down  before  the 
door. 

"I  got  your  letter — that  really  decided  me  to  come/' 
he  said. 

"Yes." 

"It  made  me  certain  that  you  will  not  go  back  with 
me.  .  .  ." 

"I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,  though.  I  didn't  say 
that." 

"No,  no  ...  I  know.  But  ...  I  felt 
it.  You  must  not  go  back." 

He  was  not  able  to  talk  about  it  calmly.  He  caught 
his  breath  after  each  sentence,  and  his  voice  was  harsh 
and  strained. 

"I  will  go  if  you  wish  it,"  said  Anna,  beginning  to 
undress. 

"If  I  wish  it  .  .  .!  What  has  that  got  to  do 
with  it?" 

"Why,  I  should  think  a  good  deal.  I  have  thought 
it  all  over,"  said  Anna,  smoothing  out  the  lace  on  her 
waist  mechanically,  "and  I've  decided  I  will  do  ex 
actly  as  you  say.  As  I  wrote  you,  I  didn't  mean 
those  things  I  said.  I'm  sorry  if  I  hurt  your  feelings. 
And  I  don't  want  to  stay,  if  you  object  to  it." 

"Why  should  I  'object' — oh,  what's  the  use  of  talk 
ing,"  groaned  Dan.  "I  haven't  anything  to  say 
about  it.  We'll  just  consider  it  settled,  that  you 
stay,  and  .  .  .  do  as  seems  best  to  you." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  it  settled  in  that  way."  Anna 
sat  down  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  indignantly.  "It's 

265 


THE  FORERUNNER 

your  affair  as  much  as  it  is  mine — almost.  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  just  wash  your  hands  of  it  ... 
and  leave  it  all  to  me.  I  want  to  agree  about  it.  If 
you  treat  me  that  way,  I  ...  won't  take  any 
money  at  all.  I'll  get  on  by  myself." 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  said  Dan  sadly.  "You  just 
don't  understand  me.  There's  only  one  thing  in  the 
whole  business  that  matters  to  me  one  way  or  the 
other.  ...  If  that  was  all  right  it  wouldn't  mat 
ter  what  you  did  ...  or  said  ...  it  might 
hurt  for  a  minute,  but  not  .  .  .  like  this.  It's 

just  this "  He  tried  to  control  the  twitching 

muscles  that  distorted  his  mouth  and  made  it  hard 
for  him  to  speak.  He  faced  her,  wounded,  mortally 
hurt.  "You  don't  love  me." 

Anna  looked  up  at  him  and  was  silent,  feeling  hope 
lessly  that  Dan  was  determined  to  make  the  breach 
between  them  worse. 

Dan  went  on,  pain  clouding  his  eyes  and  breaking 
his  voice.  "I  never  felt  it  clearly,  till  the  other  night. 
I  never  felt  that  it  was  useless  .  .  .  that  you 
couldn't  .  .  .  but  now  I  feel  it.  I  know  it  now. 
.  .  .  And  so  everything  is  different.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  You  can't  be  with  me,  because  it 
would  be  too  hard  there  .  .  .  you  would  be  un 
happy,  unless  you  wanted  to  be  with  me.  And  yet  I 
don't  know  how  to  leave  you,  to  let  you  go.  .  .  ." 

He  clinched  his  fists  and  set  his  teeth  in  a  vain  ef 
fort  at  calmness.  Anna  sprang  up  and  went  to  him 
and  clasped  her  hands  about  the  tense  muscles  of  his 
arm. 

"Oh,  please  don't/'  she  implored.  "You're  all 
wrong.  I  do,  I  do  love  you.  I  don't  know  what  was 

266 


THE   FORERUNNER 

the  matter  with  me  the  other  night.     I  didn't  mean 
what  I  said.     Won't  you  forgive  me,  please,  Dan?" 

"It  isn't  that/'  he  said,  and  she  felt  that  he  was 
shaking. 

"You  know  you  have  often  said  angry  things  to 
me,"  she  cried,  "and  I  knew  you  said  them  in  anger, 
and  when  you  were  sorry  it  was  all  right.  .  .  ." 

"I  never  said  anything  like  that  .  .  .  but  if 
it  had  been  only  in  anger.  .  .  .  But  it  wasn't. 
You  .  .  .  you  meant  it.  Or  else  when  you 
wrote  me  .  .  .  you  would  have  showed  .  .  . 
some  feeling.  But  you  have  no  feeling  for  me.  Ex 
cept,  perhaps,  you  might  like  me  a  little  ...  if 
everything  went  well." 

Anna's  hands  dropped  from  his  arm.  She  turned 
away  from  him. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  Dan  went  on  jerkily.  "You're 
not  to  blame  for  ...  not  loving  me.  It  is  my 
fault  .  .  .  something  wrong  in  me  ...  or 
I  could  have  made  you  love  me.  I  thought  you 
would,  when  we  were  married.  I  know  I  made  mis 
takes.  I  haven't  done  what  I  meant  to  do  for  you. 
.  .  .  But  I  didn't  mean  .  .  .  to  deceive  you. 
I  didn't  mean  that.  I  tried  to  do  what  I  thought 
would  be  the  best  thing.  .  .  .  But  now  perhaps 
I  am  mistaken  again.  As  you  said,  I  may  fail  .  .  . 
and  you  couldn't  stand  that,  could  you?  .  .  . 
You  can't  trust  me,  you  said  .  .  .  you  don't 
believe  I  will  succeed.  And  if  not,  if  we  were  always 
poor,  I  wouldn't  be  anything  to  you  .  .  .  except 
a  failure.  ...  You  would  .  .  .  hate  me. 
It's  better  to  know  it  now.  Perhaps  you  can  be 
happy  some  way  after  all.  .  .  ." 

267 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Happy!"  Anna  laughed  bitterly.  "No,  I  can 
never  be  happy !  You  get  rid  of  me  very  easily — but 
we'll  both  have  to  suffer  for  making  a  failure  of  it. 
You  can  begin  over  again  to  make  money,  but  how 
can  I  begin  over  again?  .  .  .  You  don't  know 
what  that  means  to  a  woman  ...  I  shall  feel 
disgraced!  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do — something 
terrible,  perhaps.  You  can't  blame  me.  .  .  ." 

They  gazed  at  one  another. 

"Then,"  said  Dan,  hoarsely,  "would  you  rather  go 
on  as  we  are?  If  so,  come  with  me." 

"It  isn't  necessary  that  I  should  go  with  you.  Only 
that  you  shouldn't  cast  me  off!"  she  cried.  "I  think 
we'd  better  be  apart  for  a  while,  anyhow — after  all 
this.  But  I  don't  want  to  feel  that — that  it  is  a  fail 
ure.  To  feel  that  I  don't  belong  anywhere,  that  no 
body — nobody "  she  struggled  with  her  sobs 

"Don't  you  see,  after  a  while  it  might  be  different. 
We  could  be  together  again.  What  else  is  there?" 

Dan  looked  at  her  in  sad  bewilderment. 

"Let  it  be  that  way,  then,"  he  said  finally.  "I 
don't  understand  you  now — but  I'll  agree  to  anything 
you  want.  I  am  to  go,  then,  and  you're  to  stay  .  .  . 
for  the  present.  .  .  .  And  we  are  to  try  and  be 
.  .  .  friends  .  .  .?" 

"Yes,"  Anna  said  with  great  and  obvious  relief. 
"That  is  it.  That's  the  best  thing." 

Dan  took  up  his  coat  and  hat,  which  lay  on  the  bed, 
and  put  them  on. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  said  in  astonish 
ment. 

"To  the  Turkish  bath.  I'm  dead  tired.  I  shall 
probably  sleep  late  in  the  morning.  I'll  be  here  for 

268 


THE  FORERUNNER 

lunch  anyhow  at  one.  Then  we  can  settle  the  rest 
before  I  go  back  to  Boston.  Good-night,  Anna." 

' 'Good-night/'  she  said  plaintively. 

She  went  over  and  kissed  his  cheek.  Dan  received 
the  caress  passively  and  went  out,  moving  with  the 
slower  step  and  slightly  bowed  shoulders  that  seemed 
to  show  the  sudden  leap  of  age  upon  him. 


269 


IX. 

TN  effect  he  had  lived  years  during  the  last  few 
-*-  months.  An  expenditure  of  mental  and  nervous 
energy  which  each  day  left  him  practically  exhausted, 
in  spite  of  his  strong  frame,  had  in  that  time  markedly 
lowered  his  vitality  and  increased  his  nervous  sen 
sitiveness.  The  life  at  Mallory  had  been  hard;  ten 
times  harder  had  been  his  work  in  the  East.  Here 
the  struggle  to  retrieve  his  false  step,  to  regain  in 
dependence,  had  reached  its  acute  crisis.  It  had  been 
intense  in  proportion  to  the  issues  involved,  and  the 
shortness  of  the  time  he  had  allowed  himself.  To 
make  and  lose  a  fortune  and  to  win  another,  all  in 
little  more  than  a  year,  is  a  thing  that  in  any  case  can 
not  be  done  cheaply.  In  Dan's  case  it  required  com 
plete  concentration  on  the  one  object,  and  the  invest 
ment  of  every  ounce  of  capital  he  possessed.  That 
capital  was  his  brain,  his  force,  his  hope  and  deter 
mination — in  other  words,  simply  his  life  itself.  Ex 
cept  for  this,  he  had  gone  almost  bare-handed  into 
the  new  enterprise,  but  he  had  thrown  himself  into 
it  without  reserve,  and  his  personal  force  had  made 
its  success. 

But  this  concentration,  this  abandon  to  his  idea, 
had  made  him  peculiarly  susceptible  and  left  him  de 
fenceless  against  the  blow  that  had  now  fallen  on 
him.  In  his  position  he  absolutely  needed  freedom 

270 


THE  FORERUNNER 

of  mind,  aside  from  his  business.  He  needed  emo 
tional  peace  and  repose,  to  rest  simply  on  a  love  that 
understood,  that  made  few  demands,  that  gave  itself 
freely.  Absorbed  in  a  task  whose  full  difficulty  and 
hardship  none  could  know  except  himself,  he  needed 
to  feel  that  this  absorption  was  being  counted  for 
and  not  against  him.  If  Anna  could  have  answered 
these  demands  on  her — and  they  were  not  small — 
she  might  have  eased  incalculably  the  strain  upon 
him. 

But  now  that  strain  was  increased  almost  to  the 
breaking-point.  Suddenly  he  had  been  put  upon 
the  defensive,  and  he  could  not  defend  himself.  The 
surprise  was  complete;  he  felt  himself  routed,  beaten, 
so  utterly  overthrown  that  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  unconditional  surrender — in  the  moment,  too, 
when  all  his  thoughts  had  been  of  victory. 

Victory,  to  be  sure,  in  another  field;  but  in  the 
same  cause.  Dan  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  his 
wife  was  with  him  in  his  fight;  that  she  understood 
it  was  for  her  more  than  for  himself  that  he  was  fight 
ing;  that  she  would  rejoice  with  him  in  any  success, 
even  though  she  offered  no  definite  consolation  in 
the  event  of  failure. 

But  now,  it  seemed,  in  trying  to  get  for  her,  in  the 
shortest  possible  time,  the  things  on  which  she  set 
her  desire,  he  had  lost  her.  The  task  presented  to  him 
now  was  to  win  again  what  he  had  thought  already 
his;  to  lay  siege  to  his  wife's  heart;  to  make  her  so 
completely  his  that  no  division  like  this  would  be  pos 
sible  again  between  them;  to  make  her  accept  him 
once  for  all,  with  all  his  limitations,  lacks  and  faults; 
to  make  her  love  him. 

271 


THE  FORERUNNER 

And  he  knew  it  was  impossible.  Between  the  lover 
of  a  year  ago  and  himself  to-day  was  an  impassable 
distance.  He  loved  Anna  all  the  more  because  she 
was  the  only  being  he  loved.  But  few  men  can  have 
made  more  completely  the  transition  from  lover  to 
husband;  can  have  exercised  more  freely  the  marital 
right  to  take  things  for  granted,  and  to  expect  one's 
self  to  be  taken  for  granted.  And  now,  this  position 
being  utterly  overturned,  he  felt  simply  that  he  was 
betrayed,  that  events  had  betrayed  him,  had  con 
founded  all  his  expectations,  and  that  it  was  impos 
sible  to  alter  the  result.  He  could  not  sue  again  for 
Anna's  love.  It  was  his  right;  for,  after  all,  he  had 
been  loyal  to  her,  and  he  had  done  what  seemed  best 
to  him  in  her  interest,  even  in  his  Californian  specula 
tions  and  in  the  subsequent  necessary  sacrifices,  for 
which  she  now  so  bitterly  reproached  him. 

It  was  the  crushing  misfortune  of  that  loss  in  Cali 
fornia  that  it  had  swept  away,  at  a  blow,  everything 
that  might  have  reconciled  Anna  to  the  inevitable 
change,  inevitably  hard  to  a  woman,  especially  so  to 
a  vain  woman,  in  Dan.  To  lose  at  once  lover,  house, 
position,  ease,  family  ties,  receiving  in  exchange  a 
husband  at  a  distance  and  certain  doubtful  prospects, 
might  have  tried  a  stronger  soul  than  hers.  Dan 
had  not  even  yet  counted  the  whole  cost  of  his  lost 
venture,  which  meant  the  loss  of  her  faith  in  him. 
He  did  not  know  yet  what  it  would  cost  him  to  give 
Anna  up — he  could  not  know  until  he  had  tried  to 
supply  the  void  that  her  loss  would  leave  in  his  life. 
For  practically  she  represented  to  him  not  only  what 
he  knew  of  woman,  but  all  relief  to  the  simple  bare 
purpose  of  his  daily  life.  If  he  could  not  woo  her 

272 


THE   FORERUNNER 

back  again,  still  less  could  he  woo  any  other  woman. 
As  for  what  women  could  give  him  unsought,  un 
asked,  he  naively  despised  it,  though  he  might  take 
it,  and  despised  them  for  giving.  No  man  could  feel 
more  deeply  the  value  of  love;  imaginatively  he  had 
felt  it,  had  lifted  it  reverently  far  above  the  things  of 
the  world  and  the  flesh.  Permanence  seemed  to  him 
of  its  essence,  and  charity  also.  It  must  be  eternal, 
long-suffering  and  forgiving,  for  was  it  not,  in  this 
world,  the  one  thing  divine? 

And  in  his  simple  creed,  to  love  and  to  be  faithful 
was  to  deserve  love.  Fidelity  too  was  a  thing  of  the 
spirit,  not  to  be  affected  by  distance,  time,  or,  in  the 
case  of  faulty  man,  by  momentary  amours.  In  this 
spirit  he  had  been  faithful  to  Anna,  and  would  be 
while  he  lived;  for  no  other  woman  could  take  her 
place,  even  though  she  rejected  him.  Nor,  in  his 
bewildered  thoughts,  did  he  blame  her  for  so  doing. 
It  was  simply  a  misfortune  that  fell  on  her  as  well  as 
himself.  It  was  a  cruel  fate  that  had  turned  his  own 
efforts  against  himself,  that  had  misled  him,  led  him 
somehow  to  injure  her  and  their  life  together.  In 
his  grief  there  was  no  room  for  resentment. 

Instinctively  Dan  was  a  fatalist.  By  inheritance, 
too,  he  was  a  Puritan.  The  world  had  never  seemed 
to  him  made  for  joy,  but  for  struggle;  the  end  of  man 
was  not  enjoyment  but  work.  In  his  heart,  even 
when  he  was  happiest,  he  had  denied  happiness.  Al 
ways  he  had  acknowledged  the  existence  of  a  power 
outside  himself  which  might  at  any  moment  range 
itself  against  him,  and  baffle  or  crush  him.  Am 
bitious  lives  near  to  him  he  had  seen  go  down  before 
these  sledge-hammer  blows  of  the  invisible  force.  It 

273 


THE   FORERUNNER 

was  partly  this  fatalism  which  blunted  the  tooth  of 
regret  for  his  own  previous  failures:  he  had  done  his 
best,  the  event  was  beyond  him. 

Now  he  bowed  his  head  to  the  inevitable.  He  had 
done  his  best:  but  Anna  was  lost  to  him. 

His  intuition  was  right.  Effort  would  have  been 
vain.  From  the  moment  that  Anna's  dissatisfaction 
with  him  was  crystallized,  fixed  by  comparison  of 
him  with  another  man,  she  was  already  in  spirit  faith 
less  to  him.  But  Dan  did  not  suspect  the  reason  of 
her  definite  change.  On  the  surface,  her  acquaint 
ance  with  Purcell  was  too  slight  to  warrant  suspicion 
in  a  mind  so  little  inclined  to  it  as  his.  Once  for  all 
he  had  placed  Anna  in  the  category  of  good  women. 
A  good  woman,  once  for  all,  was  above  temptation; 
above  the  vulgarity  of  flirtation,  as  well  as  the  darker 
faults.  It  was  unthinkable  that  a  virtuous  woman 
could  descend  from  her  august  station,  could  cross 
the  hard-and-fast  line  separating  her  from  the  frail 
sisterhood  lightly  spoken  of,  lightly  esteemed.  If  a 
woman  was  not  chaste  she  was  nothing  in  Dan's  view; 
she  had  no  claim,  except  perhaps  on  pity  that  was 
more  contempt.  She  deserved  the  brand  of  the  scar 
let  letter,  deserved  the  social  stoning.  In  something 
the  same  way,  though  not  so  strongly — for  the  special 
faults  of  men,  as  being  more  in  line  with  their  original 
nature,  impressed  him  less  than  the  fall  of  women — 
Dan  felt  toward  drunkenness.  His  kindly  nature  had 
its  harsh  side — it  was  puritanically  intolerant  of  the 
weaknesses  of  the  flesh. 

And  though  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  suspect 
Anna  or  to  be  jealous  of  Nicholas  Purcell,  in  one  way 
their  acquaintance  had  troubled  him  deeply.  When 

274 


THE  FORERUNNER 

he  was  able  to  think  at  all  he  thought  of  her,  and  of 
the  dangers  that  must  surround  her  when  she  was 
left  alone  in  the  city.  Purcell  suggested  one  of  these 
dangers.  It  was  obvious  that  Anna  could  not  escape 
attention  and  admiration — she  was  too  beautiful. 
She  was  good  and  innocent,  but  her  very  virtues  and 
attractions  would  make  it  harder  for  her.  Her  in 
nocence  might  be  taken  advantage  of.  She  was  to 
tally  ignorant  of  the  world;  and  it  was  very  probable 
that  she  was  wrong  and  he  right  in  thinking  PurcelPs 
conduct,  in  the  affair  of  the  dinner,  doubtful.  Dan's 
mind  was  by  no  means  at  ease  on  the  point,  and  he 
meant  to  have  it  settled,  and  if  need  be,  to  call  Pur- 
cell  to  account.  What  he  knew  of  Purcell's  character 
was  decidedly  against  him.  Purcell  was  an  idler,  liv 
ing  on  the  earnings  of  better  men,  corrupted  by  the 
decaying  civilizations  of  Europe — it  was  inevitable 
he  should  be  vicious,  unscrupulous.  No  doubt  he 
was  un-American  enough  to  take  advantage  of  a 
woman  for  his  own  amusement.  But  if  it  proved 
that  he  had  offered  Anna  any  disrespect.  .  .  . 

Dan  clinched  his  fists  and  rage  flamed  up  in  his 
face  as  his  solitary  meditations  reached  this  stage. 
Immediately  afterward  he  resolved  to  consult  Flora 
O'Beirne.  She  knew  the  world  at  large,  and  New 
York  in  particular.  She  would  advise  him  as  to  a 
boarding-place  for  Anna,  and  would  also,  he  was  sure, 
engage  to  help  Anna  in  any  possible  way.  And  she 
could  doubtless  settle  that  other  point  for  him — if  he 
decided  to  ask  her. 

After  his  late  breakfast  he  telephoned  and  found 
that  Mrs.  O'Beirne  was  in  and  would  see  him  with 
pleasure;  and  accordingly  went  around  to  her  hotel 

275 


THE  FORERUNNER 

at  once.  She  took  him  into  a  corner  of  the  big  old- 
fashioned  parlor,  and  he  found  it  easy  to  tell  her  of 
Anna's  plans  for  the  winter.  Flora  was  ready  and 
resourceful. 

"Of  course  I  can  find  a  place  for  her.  It  would  be 
hard  if  I  didn't  know  a  little  about  New  York,  after 
all  the  weary  time  I've  spent  here.  Boarding-houses, 
yes,  I  know  dozens  of  'em — all  kinds.  The  sort  where 
you  have  references,  and  the  sort  where  you  have 
ructions.  Exclusive  and  quite  otherwise,  oh  dear, 
yes.  I  lived  in  a  theatrical  boarding-house  once,  for 
two  weeks,  taking  care  of  a  little  friend  of  mine  who 
was  ill — well,  we  don't  want  that  kind,  of  course.  1 
know  exactly  the  sort — quiet,  not  too  expensive,  and 
she'll  want  to  have  a  piano  and  practise,  of  course. 
I'll  go  and  see  Miss  Thaw,  a  friend  of  mine.  She  is  a 
dear,  and  has  the  nicest  place,  for  the  money.  We'd 
go  to  her,  except  that  she  doesn't  take  transients, 
and  you  know  we're  nothing  if  not  transient.  But 
the  only  difficulty,  if  she  has  a  room,  would  be  the 
piano.  Her  whole  second  floor  has  been  let  for  years 
to  an  old  lady  who  won't  have  a  child,  an  English 
woman,  a  dog  or  a  piano  in  the  house.  However, 
we'll  see — I  haven't  seen  her  for  a  year,  and  things 
may  be  different  now." 

Flora  chattered  partly  out  of  desire  to  dissemble 
her  feelings.  At  first  glance  the  change  in  Dan  had 
struck  her,  and  each  moment  made  her  more  certain 
that  something  was  wrong.  She  did  not  fail  to  put 
two  and  two  together,  and  the  sum  of  her  mental  cal 
culations  was  that  Anna's  disturbance  of  the  past  day 
or  so,  Dan's  miserable  looks,  and  the  sudden  decision 
of  the  couple  to  part,  had  a  common  and  a  serious 

276 


THE   FORERUNNER 

cause.  Her  heart  leapt  instantly  to  Dan's  side  of 
the  trouble,  whatever  it  might  be. 

"You're  very  kind/'  he  said  gratefully.  "You 
take  a  big  load  off  my  mind.  If  she  could  only  be 
in  a  place  that  would  be  a  little  home-like — you  know 
what  I  mean.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  of  course — where  some  real  interest  would 
be  taken  in  her — where  she  won't  be  treated  as  a 
mere  machine  that  you  feed  meat  and  bread  and  that 
returns  dollars!  Oh,  I  know.  There's  nothing  in 
life  so  lonesome  as  a  typical  boarding-house  in  a  big 
city.  But  if  Mary  Thaw  can  take  her,  it  will  be  all 
right.  She'll  feel  almost  at  home.  Mary  will  do 
that  much  for  me  any  day." 

"If  only  you  were  going  to  be  in  New  York,"  said 
Dan  with  the  moody  look  that  was  new  to  him.  "You 
would  look  after  her  a  little,  wouldn't  you?" 

"That  I  would,  as  much  as  she'd  let  me!  And  I 
will,  Dan,  whenever  I  am  here.  I  know  how  you 
feel  about  leaving  her.  But  if  she  has  her  work  she 
won't  be  so  lonely.  And  then  she'll  find  other  things. 
And  it  won't  be  long — you'll  be  here  off  and  on,  prob 
ably,  on  business,  won't  you?  It  will  really  be  much 
easier  for  her  than  trailing  about  after  you — and  per 
haps  for  you,  too." 

"Yes,  perhaps  so,"  he  said  sombrely.  "But  she's 

so  young,  and she's  attractive,  you  see.  And 

she  doesn't  know  the  world It's  that  part  of  it 

that  worries  me." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  worry!  She  strikes  me  as  very 
well  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  really.  She  doesn't 
seem  at  all  impulsive,  feather-headed — quite  the  con 
trary.  I  thought  her  unusually — well,  level-headed/' 

277 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Well,  but  she  doesn't  know,"  returned  Dan,  show 
ing  some  irritation. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  walked  across  the 
room  and  back.  Already,  it  seemed  to  him,  the  re 
freshing  effect  of  his  night's  rest  was  wearing  off.  He 
was  conscious  of  an  extreme  nervous  irritability. 
Flora's  well-intentioned  ease  grated  on  him. 

Flora  was  quick  enough  to  see  that  she  had  taken 
the  wrong  tone.  She  cast  away  pretence.  She  put 
out  her  hand,  took  Dan's  and  drew  him  down  into 
his  chair,  regardless  of  some  people  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  Lowering  her  voice  she  said  earnestly: 

'Tell  me  anything  you  can,  my  dear,  and  if  there's 
anything  on  earth  I  can  do  to  help  you,  you  won't 
need  to  ask  twice.  It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see  you 
look  like  this.  Sorrow  to  those  that  have  brought 
sorrow  on  you!" 

"No  .  .  .  don't  say  that.  It  is  my  fault,  not 
anybody  else's,  in  the  beginning.  I  see  that  now, 
and  it's  what  hurts  the  most.  I  can't  tell  you  all 
.  .  .  it  wouldn't  do  any  good.  But  .  .  .  but 
.  .  ,  she  will  be  all  alone,  do  you  see?  And  she 
is  not  happy,  either.  Will  you  help  her,  what  you 
can?" 

"I  will,  Dan,  for  your  sake.  For  I  tell  you  hon 
estly  I  don't  believe  for  a  minute  that  you're  to  blame, 
no  matter  what  has  happened." 

"But,"  said  he,  touched  and  yet  alarmed  by  her 
evident  feeling,  "if  you  take  it  that  way  you  can't  do 
her  any  good.  She  will  see,  she  will  think  I  have  told 
you.  .  .  .  And  I  had  better  tell  you  the  whole 
thing  now,  so  that  you  can  see  for  yourself  it  is  not 
her  fault." 

278 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Well,  if  you  think  it  will  have  that  effect — for, 
frankly,  knowing  no  more  of  you  two  than  I  do  now, 
I  can't  help  but  blame  her." 

What  Dan  had  to  tell,  beginning  with  their  losses 
in  California  and  ending  with  Anna's  dislike  for  the 
Wyoming  prospect  with  its  unsettled  conditions,  was 
told  as  nearly  as  possible  from  Anna's  point  of  view. 
He  did  not  wish  at  all  to  exculpate  himself,  he  was 
concerned  only  to  make  out  Anna's  case  so*  that  no 
injustice  should  be  done  her;  and  to  avoid  touching 
on  what  could  not  be  explained  away,  her  lack  of  feel 
ing. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  he  achieved  his  object.  His 
simple  confession  of  his  own  shortcomings  and  er 
rors  merely  confirmed  Flora  unalterably  in  her  con 
viction  that  the  real  fault  lay  elsewhere.  Anna's 
unlovingness  was  too  apparent  in  the  bare  facts  of 
the  case.  And  to  Flora's  emotional  nature,  counting 
love  worth  any  sacrifice  and  the  ample  reward  of  any, 
counting  it  too  the  highest  duty  especially  of  a  woman, 
and  her  greatest  right,  Anna  stood  thereby  con 
demned. 

But  if  Dan  did  not  touch  on  that  side  of  it,  neither 
could  she.  And  so  she  simply  said  when  he  had 
ended: 

"I  understand.  No  one  knows  better  than  I  do, 
Dan,  the  hardship  of  uncertainty  and  violent  changes 
to  most  women.  We're  made  that  way — I  suppose 
for  some  good  end." 

He  got  up  to  go  immediately,  and  asked  Flora  to 
come  and  lunch  with  Anna  and  himself,  and  after 
ward  to  guide  them  in  their  search  for  a  domicile. 
She  had  arranged  previously  to  lunch  with  her  hus- 

279 


THE  FORERUNNER 

band,  but  agreed  to  the  latter  part  of  the  programme, 
adding  that,  as  she  had  an  hour  or  so  to  spare,  she 
would  go  to  see  Mary  Thaw  immediately. 

When  the  Colonel  appeared  at  one  o'clock,  Flora 
poured  out  to  him  all  her  repressed  indignation  on 
Dan's  behalf — she  had  no  secrets  from  her  husband, 
not  even  the  secrets  of  her  friends. 

"And  so  she  leaves  him  simply  because  he  can't 
make  money  fast  enough,  though,  poor  boy,  he's 
working  himself  to  death/'  she  cried. 

"Ah,  you're  always  hard  on  the  women,  especially 
the  pretty  ones,"  said  the  Colonel  easily.  "And  I 
shouldn't  wonder,  Flo,  if  you  wasted  more  sympathy 
on  the  men  than  they  deserve.  You've  fallen  in  love 
again,  and  that's  the  truth,  confess  it." 

"Better  so  than  to  have  a  heart  like  a  stone,"  said 
the  lady.  "If  you  love  one,  you  love  more,  and  that's 
the  truth.  It's  just  a  habit.  But  it's  a  habit  she 
never  had.  For  all  her  pretty  face  I  wouldn't  give 
that  for  her,"  a  snap  of  the  fingers.  "And  yet  here 
I've  been  talking  to  Mary  Thaw  about  her  as  if  she 
was  my  bosom  friend,  getting  Mary  to  give  her  the 
back  parlor  in  her  new  house  for  two  dollars  a  week 
less  than  regular  rates,  and  to  try  and  be  a  mother  to 
her  to  boot.  And  it's  a  job  7  wouldn't  undertake,  I 
can  tell  you,  unless  for  the  pleasure  of  telling  her  what 
I  think  of  her." 

With  this  help  of  Flora's,  the  question  was  very 
quickly  settled  that  afternoon.  After  inspecting  it 
with  Dan,  Anna  agreed  to  take  Miss  Thaw's  back 
parlor.  She  went  back  to  the  hotel  and  packed  all 
her  belongings.  The  next  day  she  would  see  Herr 
Pannier,  and  arrange  about  renting  a  piano.  Dan 

280 


THE   FORERUNNER 

could  feel  when  he  left  for  Boston,  not  to  return  to 
New  York  probably  for  many  months,  that  she  was 
practically  settled,  and  as  comfortably  so  as  possible 
in  the  circumstances. 

They  were  to  dine  together  for  the  last  time  that 
evening. 

In  silence,  after  the  little  room  in  which  they  had 
lived  so  long  was  dismantled  and  the  keys  given 
up,  they  left  the  hotel,  which  was  beginning  to  be 
gay  again  with  the  first  hint  of  winter  life.  Anna 
uttered  a  mental  prayer  that  she  might  never  see 
it  again. 

They  walked  down  the  Avenue  slowly.  It  was  a 
crisp  bright  evening,  with  a  red  glow  in  the  west,  and 
a  new  moon  already  sinking.  The  street  too  looked 
gay  and  alive.  Its  line  of  lights  and  those  of  the  side 
streets,  twinkling  in  the  moving  air,  had  a  festive 
suggestion,  leading  into  the  constellated  district  of 
the  cafes  and  theatres,  whose  season  was  already 
well  begun. 

"Can  you  remember  where  you  went  that  night 
with — Purcell?"  asked  Dan  suddenly.  "We  might 
try  that  place  for  a  change." 

Anna  was  startled. 

"We've  passed  the  street,  I  think,"  she  said.  "It 
was  only  two  or  three  blocks  from  the  hotel.  I  don't 
remember  exactly  the  street." 

"Well,  do  you  know  the  name  of  the  place?" 

"No.     It  was  kept  by  a  Frenchman." 

With  this  information  to  go  upon,  it  was  some  time 
before  they  found  the  place.  There  was  a  good  deal 
of  walking  up  and  down  side-streets  and  of  inquir 
ing  by  the  way,  for  its  fame  was  by  no  means  spread 

281 


THE  FORERUNNER 

abroad.  But  Dan  was  determined  to  find  it,  and  he 
did.  Anna  did  not  oppose  him,  though  she  would 
have  preferred  a  place  with  music  and  something  to 
look  at,  in  the  circumstances. 

When  they  entered  there  were  two  other  couples, 
one  in  each  room,  obviously  intent  on  something  be 
sides  dining.  Anna  sat  down  at  a  table  near  the  one 
which  she  had  occupied  with  Purcell,  choosing  her 
place  so  that  she  could  see  the  other  people  in  the 
front  room.  After  taking  off  her  coat  and  gloves  she 
proceeded  to  study  these  people,  while  Dan,  in  the 
generous  interval  afforded  them,  was  also  keenly  and 
generally  observant. 

The  lady  at  the  other  table  sat  with  her  back  to 
them,  but  Anna  had  glanced  at  her  face  as  they  came 
in.  She  judged  her  to  be  about  thirty;  she  was 
rather  handsome,  very  well  and  quietly  dressed  in 
black.  Her  companion  was  a  man  perhaps  a  year  or 
so  younger,  with  a  well-formed  though  heavy  face, 
fresh  and  smooth-shaven,  and  large  blue  eyes  that 
were  expressionless,  except  when  he  looked  at  the 
lady.  Anna  was  so  interested  in  his  looks  and  the 
tone  of  his  low  responses  to  the  lady's  quick  nervous 
sentences,  also  subdued  in  tone,  that  she  did  not  no 
tice  the  length  of  time  they  waited;  but  Dan  became 
impatient  and  rapped  his  glass  with  his  knife,  a  habit 
she  disliked. 

The  peremptory  sound  disturbed  that  atmosphere 
of  leisurely  enjoyment.  The  man  at  the  other  table 
glanced  at  them  again,  this  time  with  a  shade  of 
amused  irritation  in  his  indolent  face;  and  when 
Monsieur  Chapuis  appeared,  a  moment  or  so  later,  to 
bring  the  first-comers  their  fish,  Anna  thought  his 

282 


THE  FORERUNNER 

smile  and  bow,  directed  to  her  table,  expressed  a 
slight  reproach. 

When  he  was  at  liberty  to  attend  them,  the  host 
began  suavely  in  French  to  offer  a  suggestion  for  the 
dinner.  Dan  cut  him  short  with  a  request  for  the 
bill  of  fare.  One  was  produced,  and  at  another  time 
Dan  would  have  been  irritated  to  find  that  it  was  in 
French  and  that  no  prices  were  given.  But  now  he 
threw  it  aside  contemptuously,  and  with  a  reference 
to  Anna,  ordered  soup,  "any  kind  you  have  ready,  a 
good  thick  steak,  rare,  some  salad,  and  a  bottle  of 
claret.  And  hurry  up  that  soup,  will  you,  waiter?" 
he  called  after  the  host  as  he  departed.  Poor  Mon 
sieur  Chapuis  put  an  unwonted  ironical  dignity  into 
his  bow. 

Again  Anna  met  the  glance  of  the  big-eyed  man. 
This  time  he  was  more  irritated  than  amused.  Still 
looking  at  her,  he  made  a  brief  remark  to  his  vis-a-vis, 
with  an  annoyed  and  supercilious  curl  of  his  thick  lips. 
Anna  flushed,  and  herself  felt  deeply  annoyed.  It 
irritated  her  that  Dan  could  not  feel,  as  she  did,  the 
un-American  charm  of  the  little  place,  and  adapt  his 
manners  to  its  character.  But  nothing  was  further 
from  Dan's  mind  than  adapting  himself.  Having 
finished  his  inspection,  he  brusquely  disapproved 
that  character,  and  his  deep  voice  was  very  audible 
as  he  said: 

"Well,  I  can't  see  much  in  this  place.  Pretty 
poor,  I  call  it.  Any  chop-house  would  give  you 
better  food  too,  I  don't  doubt." 

A  certain  dry  hostility  in  his  tone  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  condemning  Purcell's  choice,  and 
Anna  so  understood  it.  But  in  her  unqualified  and 

283 


THE  FORERUNNER 

deepening  preference  for  Purcell's  ideas  and  ways, 
she  could  not  trust  herself  to  dispute  with  Dan  any 
point  involving  them. 

Their  dinner  was  a  very  silent  one;  and  it  was  not 
a  very  good  one.  Rare  steaks  were  not  in  Monsieur 
Chapuis'  line,  and  his  idea  of  rareness  did  not  corre 
spond  with  Dan's.  Result,  a  slating  for  that  un 
fortunate  artist. 

Dan  showed,  in  these  circumstances,  at  his  worst. 
His  temper,  always  quick,  and  now  exasperated  by 
suffering,  was  scarcely  within  his  control.  His  nerves 
were  sorely  tried  by  the  long  deadly  silences  that  fol 
lowed  his  brief  remarks  to  Anna  and  her  constrained 
answers;  by  the  sight  of  her  downcast,  unresponsive 
face;  by  the  waits  between  the  courses  of  their  un 
satisfactory  meal;  perhaps  by  the  proximity  of  that 
pair  of  lovers,  with  their  low  talk  and  absorption  in 
one  another.  A  terrible  ache  was  at  his  heart;  pain 
sometimes  gripped  him  by  the  throat.  While  he  was 
berating  the  pale,  agitated  host,  he  could  scarcely 
keep  from  crying  aloud  with  misery,  from  hurling 
himself  blindly  forth,  to  do  bodily  harm  to  the  first 
being  that  crossed  his  path.  It  was  not  to  be  sup 
posed  that  the  social  perceptions  which  Dan  had  never 
cultivated  could  serve  him  now. 

He  paid  the  bill  under  protest  and  they  departed, 
Anna  vowing  with  tears  in  her  eyes  never  to  confront 
Monsieur  Chapuis  again.  It  seemed  to  be  fated  that 
each  place  where  of  late  she  had  been  with  Dan  should 
be  closed  to  her  by  unpleasant  memories. 

They  walked  east — four  long  blocks  through  the 
heart  of  the  city's  night-life,  just  beginning  to  stir — 
and  found  themselves  within  a  few  doors  of  Anna's 

284 


THE  FORERUNNER 

new  home.  It  was  necessary  to  consult  a  memoran 
dum  of  the  number  which  she  had  made  in  order  to 
identify  the  house,  one  in  a  row  of  exactly  similar 
design.  Dan  took  her  keys  and  opened  the  front 
door,  and  the  door  of  her  room.  It  was  rather  a 
large  room,  its  length  being  the  width  of  the  house, 
and  it  had  two  long  windows  opening  on  the  back 
yard,  which  contained  a  tree  and  a  grass-plot.  There 
was  an  open  fire,  burning  cheerily,  and  when  the  gas 
was  turned  up,  Anna  beheld  her  trunk  already  de 
livered,  and  on  that  article  of  furniture  which  was  by 
night  a  bed  and  by  day  apparently  a  book-case,  a 
large  cluster  of  red  roses. 

"Oh,  see!"  she  cried.  Then  reading  the  card  that 
lay  near  the  vase,  "Mrs.  O'Beirne.  Isn't  that  nice 
of  her!  It  looks  quite  cosy,  doesn't  it?" 

And  she  glanced  round  her  new  domain  and  then 
at  Dan,  nervously.  He  was  standing,  with  his  coat 
on,  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Yes,  it  looks  comfortable,"  he  said  mechanically. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  asked,  laughing  a  little, 
and  going  to  take  his  coat  from  him. 

Dan  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  must  get  along — my  train — have  some 
things  to  do " 

They  looked  at  one  another.  And  this  was  to  be 
good-by!  It  seemed  absurd,  to  both  of  them,  really 
incredible. 

"You  will  write  often,  won't  you?"  said  Anna  in 
a  trembling  voice.  "Tell  me  about — the  railroad 
and  everything.  And  I  will  try — not  to  be  a  burden 
— I  mean  I  think  I  can  get  a  church-position.  .  .  . 
And  I  will  work  hard.  .  .  ." 

285 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  that's  all  right/'  muttered  Dan.  "You  must 
let  me  know  how  you  get  on."  He  took  a  roll  of  bills 
from  his  pocket  and  gave  her  three  hundred  dollars. 
"That's  for  the  first  month  and — incidentals.  You 
think  two  hundred  a  month  will  be  enough?" 

"Oh,  plenty.  I  will  be  very  careful.  And  I  don't 
think  I'll  need  that  much  long." 

Dan  looked  round  the  room  again  vaguely. 

"Well  ...  I  must  go,"  he  said  again,  with  a 
sharp  effort. 

Anna  approached  him. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  tearfully.  "You  will  write 
often,  won't  you?  And  I  suppose  you'll  be  here 
again  before  long,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  may  be." 

"And  take  care  of  yourself,  won't  you     .     .     .     ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

Anna  offered  a  caress,  and  he  kissed  her  cheek 
brusquely.  Then  he  turned  toward  the  door.  Anna 
followed,  clinging  to  his  hand. 

"Good-by,"  she  sobbed,  the  tears  on  her  cheeks. 

Dan  nodded,  keeping  his  face  turned  away  from 
her  as  he  went  out. 


286 


A  LL  that  was  left  him  now  was  the  great  cause, 
•*-*^  sign  and  conservator  of  middle-age — the  love  of 
work.  In  his  Boston  office  he  found  work  piled  up  for 
him,  and  he  plunged  into  it  with  an  energy  that  left 
no  time  for  brooding.  Boston,  city  of  enthusiasms,  was 
in  the  throes  of  her  brief  copper  boom;  and  the  har 
vest  poured  in  on  the  happy  holders  of  copper  stocks. 
Mallory  stock  had  sold  out  the  first  two  blocks  of 
fered,  and  was  now  selling  at  par.  Dan's  commission 
on  the  sales  already  mounted  up  handsomely.  He 
was  in  constant  telegraphic  communication  with 
Grand  at  River  City;  and  his  reports  of  the  present 
and  forecasts  of  the  future  were  glowing  as  ever. 
For  when  happiness  left  him  and  all  lightness  of 
heart,  he  kept  himself  going  by  sheer  dogged  devotion 
to  the  work  he  had  in  hand;  and  this  devotion  at 
least  was  not  wasted. 

Josiah  Purcell,  now  a  large  stockholder  in  Mallory, 
and  spending  a  good  deal  of  time  in  the  office,  ob 
served  the  change  in  Dan's  looks  in  shrewd  silence. 
He  knew,  no  one  better,  the  cost  of  such  inevitable 
physical  over-drafts  as  Dan  obviously  had  been  mak 
ing.  His  own  early  years  of  business  struggle  had 
bequeathed  him  a  nervous  dyspepsia,  which  all  his 
years  of  leisure  he  had  been  trying  to  cure.  But 
he  hoped,  for  all  kinds  of  reasons,  that  Devin  was 
not  going  to  break  down. 

287 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Josiah  Purcell  was  immensely  interested  in  the 
railroad  scheme.  Having  put  a  good  deal  of  money 
into  Mallory,  he  was  determined  that  Mallory  should 
pay.  And  without  having  been  on  the  ground,  he 
was  convinced  by  Dan's  array  of  facts  and  figures, 
that  the  railroad  was  the  way  to  make  it  pay,  on  a 
scale  attractive  to  the  millionnaire. 

Their  first  interview  in  Dan's  private  room — a 
little  place  partitioned  off  from  the  main  office — 
mainly  concerned  the  affairs  and  prospects  of  the 
Mallory  company.  In  Dan's  absence  Purcell  was  to 
have  the  real  charge  of  the  Boston  end,  though  there 
was  a  nominal  agent. 

" You'  11  be  getting  off  in  a  day  or  so,  I  suppose," 
said  the  elder  man,  as  they  went  out  to  lunch  to 
gether. 

"Day  after  to-morrow,  I  think." 

"Go  straight  West?" 

"I  think  so.  There's  nothing  that  needs  to  take 
me  to  New  York  again.  And  you  know  every  day 
counts  now  out  there.  I  don't  want  some  of  those 
fellows  to  come  nosing  round  and  spoil  my  work  for 
me." 

Purcell  understood  this  cryptic  reference  to  the 
railroad,  but  postponed  discussion  of  the  subject 
most  in  the  minds  of  both,  till  they  had  pushed  their 
way  along  the  narrow  sidewalk,  jammed  with  its 
noontime  hungry  hurrying  crowds,  and  had  found 
a  table  in  a  hotel  cafe.  Dan  could  not  discover  much 
appetite. 

"Oh,  bring  me  a  mutton-chop  and  a  Scotch  high 
ball,  and  bring  the  high-ball  right  away,"  he  said 
listlessly. 

288 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Josiah  Purcell  consumed  much  more  time  and  care 
in  ordering;  his  drink  was  malted  milk.  He  said  to 
Dan:  "Wait  till  you  get  to  my  age.  You'll  be  living 
on  gruel.  Do  you  know  that  a  man  works  on  his 
stomach?  Yes,  sir,  and  that's  the  first  place  that 
overwork  hits  you.  You  look  to  me  as  if  you'd  been 
hit  lately.  Been  eating  well?" 

"Oh,  well  enough — about  as  usual,"  Dan  drank 
off  half  his  whiskey  and  water. 

"It's  years  since  I  touched  any  of  that  stuff,"  said 
Purcell.  "I  found  out  that  I  was  beginning  to  like 
it,  and  I  stopped." 

"I  haven't  begun  to  like  it  yet.  When  I  do  I'll 
stop." 

"Well,  how  do  you  live  out  there,  anyway?  Do 
you  get  well  taken  care  of — home  living?" 

"No — not  exactly.  Lived  on  canned  goods  when 
I  was  there,  mostly— it  did  play  the  mischief  with 
me,  that's  a  fact." 

"Of  course  it  did.  I  knew  well  enough  what  ailed 
you.  Couldn't  you  get  anything  else?" 

"No,  not  there.  It'll  be  a  shade  better  at 
River  City,  where  my  head-quarters  will  be  this 
winter  probably.  There's  a  fair  hotel  there." 

"Hotel?"  said  Purcell,  his  sharp  old  face  showing 
some  concern.  "I  thought  you'd  be  living  in  a  place 
of  your  own.  Tell  the  truth,  I  was  counting  on  board 
ing  with  you  while  I'm  out  there.  Deliver  me  from 

Western  hotels — and  a  mining-town  hotel !  Why, 

my  dear  fellow,  you'll  be  a  wreck  by  spring— what 
with  fried  meat,  canned  vegetables,  biscuits  and 
preserves — heaven  help  us!" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that,"  said  Dan  carelessly. 
289 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Well,  what  does  your  wife  say?  I  shouldn't  think 
that  plan  would  suit  her.  Now  my  wife  never  would 
board.  She  wanted  her  own  house,  but,  to  tell  the 
truth,  she  wasn't  a  housekeeper.  She  was  a  smart 
woman  and  a  good  woman,  and  I  don't  say  a  word 
against  her— but  she  wasn't  brought  up  to  go  into 
the  kitchen  and  see  that  things  were  right,  and— well, 
I've  got  some  troubles  to  show  for  it.  You  see,  when 
you're  going  ahead  full  steam  on,  bound  to  break  a 
record  or  burst,  you've  got  to  be  well  stoked.  That's 
what  I  say — it's  the  stomach  that  counts  in  the  long 
run,  and  the  women  ought  to  look  to  that  part  of  it 
— a  man  hasn't  time  to  think  about  what  he's  eat 
ing."  And  the  old  man's  choleric  eyes  snapped  as 
he  sipped  his  milk. 

Dan  nodded  and  began  to  talk  about  the  railroad. 
Their  plans  had  been  previously  settled  except  as  to 
a  few  details.  The  thing  that  lay  ahead  of  Dan  now 
was  to  get  the  traffic  agreement  from  the  Union  Pa 
cific  people.  He  already  had  the  right  of  way  secured. 
Josiah  Purcell  now  announced  his  intention  of  going 
out  to  Wyoming  some  time  the  next  month. 

"The  fact  is,  I  haven't  got  a  blamed  thing  to  do 
here,"  he  confessed.  "And  I  want  to  get  into  things 
again.  My  daughter  wants  me  to  come  up  to  the 
place  on  the  Hudson,  but  bless  you,  there's  nothing 
up  there  but  horses,  riding  round  in  automobiles  and 
playing  one  kind  of  game  or  another.  Vaughan  is  a 
great  sportsman,  you  see.  And  my  daughter  wants 
to  coddle  me,  make  me  sit  by  the  chimney-corner 
and  act  the  doting  grandfather.  But  I'm  not 
quite  in  my  dotage  yet.  How  old  do  you  think 
I  am?" 

290 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Sixty,"  said  Dan,  subtracting  a  few  years. 

"Sixty-five,  sir.  When  I'm  at  work,  I'm  about 
fifty,  and  when  I'm  doing  nothing  but  nurse  my 
health,  eighty  at  least.  That's  one  reason  I  want  to 
work.  But  not  to  overwork.  You've  been  running 
things  rather  too  hard,  it  strikes  me.  Why,  you 
look  ten  years  older  than  when  I  first  saw  you." 

"Do  I?    How  old  do  I  look?"  Dan  asked  absently. 

"Well,  forty-two  or  three." 

"Then  I  Jiave  gained  ten  years — or  lost  them.  .  .  . 
But  now  about  that  option  on  Graham's  land.  It 
expires  on  the  tenth,  and  from  private  advices  I  have 
I  think  he  won't  renew  it  except  at  a  higher  price. 
We'll  have  to  buy  that  in,  I  expect.  .  .  ." 

And  the  talk  went  back  to  the  road. 

When  Dan  returned  to  his  office  he  found  in  his 
mail  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Vaughan,  enclosing  her  check 
for  the  hundred  shares  of  stock  she  had  taken,  and 
inviting  him  to  come  up  to  Lenox  over  the  next 
Saturday  and  Sunday. 

Dan  immediately  wrote  to  acknowledge  the  check 
and  decline  the  invitation,  on  the  ground  that  he  was 
leaving  for  the  West. 

Then  before  ending  the  letter  he  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair  and  thought  for  a  few  moments, 
with  the  slight  frown  that  was  becoming  habitual, 
and  finally  added  this  paragraph: 

"You  spoke  of  calling  on  my  wife,  and  I  know  she 
will  be  very  glad  to  have  you.  She  is  to  spend  the 
winter  in  New  York  studying  music,"  he  gave  Anna's 
address,  "and  if  you  could  show  her  any  attention — " 
here  he  paused,  thinking  that  this  sounded  too  much 
like  a  business  letter  of  introduction,  but  in  despair 

291 


THE  FORERUNNER 

of  a  better  phrase  he  ended,  "it  would  be  a  very  great 
favor  to  me.     Yours  very  truly,  Daniel  Devin." 

He  could  scarcely  have  told  himself  the  exact 
motive  for  the  request,  which  was  certainly  incon 
sistent  with  what  he  had  said  to  Anna  about  Mrs. 
Vaughan  and  "her  sort."  It  was  partly,  no  doubt, 
Anna's  wish  to  know  Mrs.  Vaughan  and  his  own  feel 
ing  that  any  acquaintance  would  relieve  her  lonely 
situation;  partly,  in  an  obscure  way,  some  feeling 
about  Nicholas  Purcell.  Dan's  visit  at  the  restau 
rant  had  given  no  more  definite  form  to  his  doubts, 
but  neither  had  it  dispelled  them.  He  did  not  see 
how  he  could  call  Nicholas  to  account  for  taking  Anna 
there — but  at  the  same  time  there  was  a  dull  uneasi 
ness  in  his  mind  about  the  whole  thing.  And  he  had 
a  vague  impression  that  if  Anna  knew  Purcell's  sis 
ter,  she  would  be  in  a  safer  position. 

But  if  he  could  have  foreseen  the  impression  his  let 
ter  was  to  make,  probably  he  would  not  have  sent  it. 
Margaret  Vaughan  read  it,  broke  into  a  shout  of 
laughter,  and  took  it  in  to  read  to  George. 

"Isn't  he  quaint!"  she  cried  delightedly.  "I  ask 
him  up  here,  and  he  recommends  his  wife.  Oh,  I 
am  sorry  now  he  can't  come — he  is  such  a  charac 
ter!" 

George  declined  to  regret  the  event. 

"You  think  any  bore  is  a  character,"  he  complained 
mildly.  "I  like  people  without  characters  best." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  none  of  your  friends  have  any," 
returned  Margaret.  But  her  tone  was  meditative. 
She  re-read  the  letter,  and  then  cried  suddenly,  "I 
know  now  why  Nick  telegraphed!" 

"Didn't  know  he  had.    Is  he  coming?" 
292 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"No,  no,  stupid,  I  mean  about  the  music- teacher 
— don't  you  see?  It  was  for  her  he  wanted  to  find 
out.  I've  no  doubt  she's  his  latest  crush." 

"Who  is?" 

"Why,  'my  wife' — Mrs.  Devin.  Show  her  some 
attention?  Of  course  I  will.  I  always  like  to  know 
Nick's  flames." 

Margaret,  by  dint  of  an  exceeding  attentiveness  to 
any  sign  of  interest  between  a  man  and  a  woman,  and 
a  habit  of  jumping  to  a  conclusion  when  the  slightest 
sign  could  be  discovered,  was  very  often  right;  since 
the  kind  of  thing  she  was  interested  in  has  a  habit  of 
occurring. 

It  was  inevitable  now  that  she  should  be  really  in 
terested  in  Anna.  For  besides  curiosity  she  had  the 
motive  of  a  strong  love  for  her  brother.  Margaret 
was  always  rather  relieved  when  Nick's  Platonic  fancy 
lighted  on  a  married  woman;  for  though  she  often 
told  him  he  ought  to  marry,  she  secretly  dreaded  the 
day  when  he  should  fall  really  in  love.  A  radical  in 
her  own  procedure,  she  was  conservative  when  it 
came  to  the  affairs  of  her  men-folk.  She  thought 
they  were  very  well  off  as  they  were,  but  she  distrusted 
emotions  for  Nick  more  than  she  did  business  ventures 
for  her  father.  Falling  in  love  was  simply  taking  the 
biggest  of  all  risks,  and  a  deliberate  invitation  to 
bankruptcy.  Margaret  had  taken  that  risk  and  on 
the  whole  had  come  out  well ;  but  nevertheless  she  had 
the  natural  view  of  other  people's  love-plunges,  as 
probable  calamities — for  them. 

Nick,  she  considered,  had  taken  the  best  means 
of  insuring  himself  against  anything  of  that  kind,  by 
an  infinite  number  of  interests  in  women.  He  had 

293 


THE  FORERUNNER 

never  got  into  scrapes,  he  had  never  hurt  himself  or 
anybody  else.  Nevertheless,  Margaret  now  regarded 
each  new  interest  with  some  uneasiness,  very  marked 
if  it  concerned  a  girl.  For  he  was  approaching  the 
dangerous  age  of  thirty,  when  permanence  and  monot 
ony  begin  to  charm  the  errant  masculine  fancy ;  and 
when,  propinquity  assisting,  a  man  will  commonly 
fall  in  love  if  he  is  going  to  do  it  at  all.  And  he  had 
lately  given  definite  signs  of  settling  down.  He  was 
tired  of  living  abroad,  and  interested  in  his  own  coun 
try.  He  was  vaguely  tired  of  doing  nothing,  and 
was  even  talking  of  going  into  the  law.  He  was  tired 
of  wandering,  and  he  had  said  that  he  wanted  a  home. 
Yes,  certainly,  he  was  ready  to  fall  in  love.  But  Nick 
was  not  a  violent  or  a  very  emotional  person.  It  was 
of  course  possible,  but  it  was  not  likely,  that  he  would 
be  deeply  attracted  by  a  woman  who  was  not  free  to 
marry  him.  That  would  be  against  the  whole  tenor 
of  his  easy  uncombative  life  and  disposition,  so  unlike 
Margaret's  own. 

Therefore  she,  took  the  affair  that  she  had  imagined 
for  him  with  Anna  Devin  rather  lightly,  as  another 
example  of  Platonic  homoeopathy. 

It  was  doubtless  a  Platonic  scene  that  Dan  inter 
rupted,  two  days  later — though  just  at  first  blush  it 
did  not  make  exactly  that  impression  on  him. 

He  had  decided,  after  all,  to  stop  at  New  York  on 
his  way  west — for  unreasoned  reasons  that  took  him 
straight  to  Anna's  door.  His  ring  was  answered  by 
a  neat  maid,  who  said  Mrs.  Devin  was  in;  indeed 
from  the  hall  Dan  could  hear  Anna's  voice,  thrilling 
out  in  one  of  those  plaintive  ballads  he  had  liked.  He 

294 


THE   FORERUNNER 

gave  his  name  and  said  he  would  go  directly  in.  There 
was  no  waiting-room  in  the  house,  the  front  parlor 
being  let  to  a  dentist. 

He  opened  the  door  very  softly,  not  to  interrupt 
the  song;  and  it  was  a  decided  shock  to  him  to  see, 
outlined  against  the  fading  daylight  of  the  window, 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man  lounging  in  a  low 
chair.  Purcell,  seeing  him,  rose  quietly  and  came 
to  shake  hands;  and  as  Anna's  voice  sank  on  the  last 
low  notes  of  the  song  she  heard  the  murmur  of  his 
voice  and  turned  sharply  round. 

She  was  in  her  blue  dress,  with  a  bunch  of  violets 
at  her  waist:  her  face  was  bright  with  color — she 
was  adorably  pretty.  Dan  saw  all  that  in  the  instant 
before  she  came  and  drew  him  into  the  room  and  took 
his  hat,  crying  out,  with  a  deepening  of  her  rosy 
bloom, 

"Well,  this  is  a  surprise!  I  didn't  know  you  meant 
to  come  over  again." 

"I  didn't  either,  till  this  morning,"  he  said,  with 
a  manner  somewhat  dry. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Anna  impartially,  trying  not  to 
seem  embarrassed.  "I  was  just  trying  my  new  piano. 
I  like  the  tone  very  well.  And  I  like  Herr  Pannier 
too.  I  had  my  first  lesson  to-day." 

"That's  good,"  said  Dan  mechanically. 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  sat  down;  and  Purcell, 
resuming  his  chair,  met  amiably  Dan's  direct  look 
and  abrupt  remark: 

"I  saw  your  father  just  before  I  left  Boston.  He 
is  planning  to  come  out  to  Wyoming — I  suppose  we 
shall  see  him  there  next  month." 

Dan  had  no  object  in  imparting  this  information 
295 


THE  FORERUNNER 

except  to  speak  to  Purcell  on  a  more  remote  theme 
than  Anna  had  suggested. 

"Really,  is  he?"  said  Nicholas.  "I  find  it  difficult 
to  keep  up  with  him  nowadays.  Won't  it  be  rather 
a  hard  trip  for  him?  It's  a  rough  country,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  rough — that  depends.  You  would  think  so, 
very  likely.  Your  father  will  be  able  to  stand  a  month 
of  it  very  well,  I  think.  He  has  had  some  little  ex 
perience  in  roughing  it,  he  tells  me." 

"It's  true  I  haven't  had  much,"  said  Nicholas  smil 
ing.  "I  belong  to  a  useless  generation,  as  you  prob 
ably  know.  But  it's  a  question,  don't  you  think, 
where  the  responsibility  lies?  For  example,  if  my 
forefathers  hadn't  worked  so  hard  I  might  be  work 
ing  harder." 

But  Dan  was  in  no  mood  for  easy  generalities,  nor 
to  be  drawn  out  on  any  subject. 

"Possibly,"  he  said  curtly.  "But  in  that  case  you 
would  probably  blame  them  because  you  had  to  work. 
The  last  generation  is  always  wrong." 

"I  had  an  idea  it  was  the  present  one.  At  least 
the  last  generation  thinks  this  one  is  wrong,  you  must 
admit  that." 

"Oh,  I'll  admit  it.  They  haven't  much  in  com 
mon." 

It  was  as  the  representative  of  that  elder  generation 
that  Dan  spoke,  and  as  such  Purcell  took  him.  There 
was  not  five  years'  difference  in  their  ages,  but  in  their 
point  of  view  there  was  the  difference  of  a  lifetime. 
Dan  now  had  definitely  identified  himself  with  middle- 
age  and  its  outlook  on  the  shady  side  of  life;  he  had 
definitely  renounced  the  badge  of  youth,  its  confidence 
of  joy  to  come,  and  the  look  of  it  had  gone  from  his 

296 


THE   FORERUNNER 

face.  Instead  were  the  deep  marks  of  experience, 
and  a  certain  hardening  which  expressed  absorption 
in  a  narrow  groove  of  thought  and  feeling,  and  indif 
ference  to  all  else.  Dan's  was  now  not  an  emotional 
face — it  was  rather  a  record  of  emotions  lived  through. 

Pur  cell,  interested  in  his  look,  and  for  many  rea 
sons  in  the  man  himself,  would  have  been  glad  to 
establish  a  common  ground  on  which  they  might 
meet  in  some  way;  but  Dan's  manner  was  forbid 
ding.  Purcell  felt  himself  one  too  many  in  this  un 
expected  encounter,  and  with  some  regret  he  rose  to 
go.  His  move  relieved  what  was  to  Anna  a  very  un 
pleasant  situation.  She  had  sat  silent  on  the  piano- 
stool,  folding  and  unfolding  a  sheet  of  music,  during 
that  brief  exchange  of  sentences,  that  confronting, 
on  Dan's  part  hostile,  of  the  two  men.  She  knew 
Dan  disliked  Purcell  and  that  he  must  dislike  to  find 
him  with  her :  she  feared  that  he  would  show  his  feel 
ing  in  some  unforgivable  way.  But  Purcell  got  out 
of  the  room  with  the  conventions  intact.  Dan  got 
up  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  even  echoed  his 
wish  that  they  might  see  one  another  again.  Anna 
shook  hands  with  him  too,  and  it  was  quite  under 
stood  that  they  would  see  one  another  again.  And 
so  he  went  away. 

The  daylight  had  quite  faded  out  now.  Anna  lit 
the  gas.  Dan,  looking  out  into  the  little  garden 
where  the  straggling  vines  had  showed  lines  of  red 
against  the  high  fence,  and  the  tree  was  shedding  its 
yellow  leaves,  was  vaguely  sorry  that  she  had  done 
so.  It  had  been  in  his  mind  that  he  wished  she  would 
go  on  singing  "Ye  Banks  and  Braes  of  Bonnie  Doon," 
and  that  he  might  sit  in  the  dusk  and  listen  for  a  little, 

297 


THE   FORERUNNER 

resting,  half-dreaming,  as  he  had  used  to  do  ages  ago. 
But  now  she  did  not  sing  to  him,  but  for  that  other 
man.  Anna  spoke  nervously. 

"So  you  found  after  all  you  could  stop  here  again." 

A  silence.  "Yes,"  said  Dan  heavily.  "I  wanted 
to  open  a  bank  account  for  you,  and  I  thought  I  might 
as  well  see " 

"I'm  glad  you  could  come.  You  can  see  how  com 
fortable  I  shall  be.  Everything  is  very  nice." 

Silence. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?  You'll  stay  to  dinner  with 
me  here,  won't  you?  I  should  like  it." 

Dan  stood  pressing  his  forehead  hard  against  the 
cool  glass,  his  hands  clinched  down  in  his  pockets. 
Should  he  let  himself  go,  just  this  once?  Should  he 
give  free  vent  to  all  those  wild  thoughts  that  were 
crowding  his  brain,  break  through  the  restraints  that 
he  had  put  on  himself  and  that  hurt  and  chafed  and 
tormented  him?  His  head  seemed  whirling.  In  a 
flash  he  felt  that  it  was  not  a  question  whether  he 
should  break  out,  but  whether  he  could  help  doing  it. 
Anna's  touch  on  his  arm  was  the  last  straw.  He 
flung  it  oft7  and  turned  round  on  her. 

"Why  do  you  have  that  fellow  here?"  he  demanded 
with  an  ominous  look. 

"Why— why  shouldn't  I,  if  I  like  to?" 

"Why  should  you?  Why  should  he  be  here,  in 
your  room,  in  the  dark— you  singing  to  him " 

"Dan!  It  isn't  true.  'In  the  dark!'  How- 
dare  you "  Anna  choked  with  the  ready  tears 

of  anger. 

"It  was  so.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  would  have 
had  him  here  if  you'd  known  I  was  coming?  You 

298 


THE  FORERUNNER 

thought  I  was  safely  away  and  you  could  do  what 
you  liked.  But  I  never  thought  that  I  couldn't  trust 
you." 

"Trust  me?  What  do  you  mean?  I  have  never 
done  or  said  anything  that  you  could  blame  me  for 
— never.  You  are  simply  crazy.  I  asked  him  in 
here  because  there  is  no  parlor — it  is  all  right  to  do 
it — nobody  would  know  this  isn't  a  parlor.  Do  you 
mean  I  am  not  to  see  a  soul — no  one " 

"I  mean  you're  not  to  have  a  fellow  like  that  hang 
ing  round  when  I'm  not  here  to  look  after  him — a 
fellow  that  has  nothing  to  do  but  follow  women. 
What  do  you  know  of  him  or  his  kind?  What  do  you 
think  he  comes  here  for?" 

"He  comes  because  he  is  friendly  to  me.  Because 
I  like  him." 

"Yes,  exactly.  But  you  can't  have  that  kind  of 
'friends.'  I  know  well  enough  where  that  ends,  if 
you  don't.  You'd  find  out  soon  enough.  Take  my 
word  for  it  and  stop  it  now." 

"I  won't  take  your  word,  because  you  haven't  the 
slightest  idea  of  what  you're  talking  about.  I  know 
him  better  than  you  do." 

"That's  nonsense.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  men,  or  the  world.  That's  exactly  what  I've 
been  afraid  of,  all  along.  This  can't  go  on." 

They  both  spoke  now  with  a  measure  of  calmness; 
they  seemed  to  be  reasoning  with  one  another.  But 
behind  this  show  of  reason  swelled  a  confused  feeling, 
on  Anna's  side  of  rage  against  Dan;  on  his  side  of  rage 
against  everything  but  her.  That  defiant,  wrong- 
headed,  absurd  innocence  of  hers  disarmed  him.  It 
was  true  that  he  could  not  long  blame  her.  All  the 
299 


THE  FORERUNNER 

more  reason  why  he  should  protect  her,  even  against 
herself,  even  though  she  resented  his  action.  It  was 
hard  that  he  could  not  do  that  without  rousing  her 
resentment.  And  it  was  very  bitter  that  they  should 
quarrel  now,  at  this  last  moment,  when  he  had  hoped 
in  spite  of  himself  for  some  sort  of  reconciliation,  for 
some  change — though  he  could  not  tell  how  it  was 
to  come — in  the  situation,  in  Anna  herself.  In  that 
forlorn  hope  he  had  come — that  is,  he  had  come  sim 
ply  because  he  could  not  help  it. 

"Do  you  mean/'  said  Anna,  her  voice  trembling, 
"that  you  forbid  me  to  let  him  come  here."  ' 

"I  mean  .  .  .  that  I  want  you  to  see  it  as  I  do 
.  .  .  that  it  is  foolish.  .  .  ." 

"I  can't  see  anything  as  you  do,  we  might  as  well 
settle  that.  I  only  want  to  know  if  you  mean  to 
.  .  .  try  to  prevent  me  from  doing  as  I  wish,  from 
having  the  little  pleasure  that  I  can  have  ...  be 
cause  if  you  do  .  .  ." 

"Well,  if  I  do,  what  then?" 

Anna  might  justly  think  from  his  manner  that  he 
was  determined  to  make  the  worst  of  the  situation, 
that  he  was  angry  with  her,  determined  to  put  her  in 
the  wrong.  His  look,  his  voice,  were  hard  and  harsh 
from  emotion  which  could  hardly  be  accounted  for 
by  the  simple  fact  of  Purcell's  visit. 

"I  mean  to  do  as  I  like,  that  is  all.  I  won't  be 
treated  like  a  child  or  a  fool,"  she  cried.  "I  will 
have  what  visitors  I  choose.  You  have  no  right  to 
forbid  me.  I  won't  bear  it.  You  try  to  take  away 
everything  I  care  about,  everything  that  interests 
me.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  care  about  him?"  asked  Dan  heavily. 
300 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  didn't  say  that.  I  like  him,  and  he  is  the  only 
interesting  person  I  know.  And  now  for  no  reason 
you  .  .  /' 

She  stopped,  in  tears  again,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  All  this  time  they  had  been  stand 
ing,  but  now  Dan  turned  away  and  threw  himself 
into  the  wicker  chair. 

"If  you  try  to  do  that,"  Anna  burst  out  in  a  stran 
gled  voice,  "I  shall  just  hate  you.  You  can  take 
away  the  money,  and  I  will  live  somehow,  by  myself, 
I  don't  care  how!  I  would  rather  live  on  bread  and 
water  and  be  free,  than  .  .  .  than  .  .  ." 

She  made  a  desperate  effort,  checked  her  sobs,  and 
turning  her  back  on  Dan  stood  looking  out  blindly 
into  the  dark  garden,  twisting  her  handkerchief  round 
her  ringers. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

Dan  knew  already  that  he  was  beaten.  He  had 
taken  up  and  tried  to  defend  an  untenable  position, 
and  by  the  laws  of  war  he  deserved  no  mercy.  And 
it  was  war  between  them  still,  that  was  the  bewilder 
ing,  terrible  fact.  He  had  no  control  over  Anna, 
even  for  her  own  good,  but  she  had  the  heaviest  of 
advantages  over  him  and  she  used  it  mercilessly. 
She  could  safely  defy  him,  knowing  well  that  there 
was  nothing  he  feared  more  than  that  harm  should 
come  to  her.  She  knew  well  that  he  could  no  more 
"take  away  the  money"  than  he  could  deliberately 
forsake  her;  that  in  fact  he  could  do  nothing. 

He  was  back  again,  up  against  the  blank  wall  that 
mocked  his  strength.  He  had  no  hold  over  Anna; 
he  might  watch  her  drifting  into  danger,  unable  to 
prevent  or  help  her.  Her  monumental  indifference 

301 


THE   FORERUNNER 

to  him  blocked  every  path.  She  did  not  need  him, 
she  was  happier  without  him,  already  she  had  sup 
plied  his  place,  in  a  way.  She  would  easily  supply  it 
altogether;  she  would  be  easily  taken  from  him  al 
together,  if  she  loved  someone  else — and  she  might 
love  anybody  but  him. 

It  was  just  that  stony  fact,  that  he  had  come  to 
dash  himself  against  once  more.  He  loved  her,  and 
she  did  not  want  him.  No  one  could  understand  a 
thing  like  that — no  one  could  tell  how  to  meet  it. 
And  no  more  could  she  understand  him.  She  was 
setting  herself  against  him,  preparing  to  hate  him; 
while  he  sat  dumb  with  the  pitiful  anguish  of  the  re 
jected.  There  was  war  indeed  between  them;  but 
it  was  because  he  had  fought  for  what  she  had  denied 
him;  still  fought  for  it,  though  he  had  known  long 
before  the  thing  was  hopeless.  And  now  every  nerve 
in  his  body  cried  out  for  what  she  alone  could  give 
him,  and  would  never  give  him.  And  he  must  go 
away  with  a  longing  never  to  be  satisfied,  with  a  pain 
never  to  be  subdued. 

As  he  sat  quiet,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
for  long  moments  he  was  possessed  by  the  desire  to 
end  her  life  and  his.  To  kill  himself  would  be  too 
easy,  but  it  would  be  a  cowardly  thing  to  shirk  what 
responsibility  she  had  left  him.  But  if  she  died 
too,  in  some  quick  way,  all  would  be  ended.  There 
would  be  peace,  and  if  by  chance  there  were  any 
future  penalty  to  pay,  it  could  not  be  worse  than 
this. 

He  laughed  aloud. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  about?"  he 
said,  getting  up.  He  threw  his  head  back  and  looked 

302 


THE  FORERUNNER 

at  her  with  a  reckless  flash  of  his  blue  eyes  that  re 
vived  a  suggestion  of  youth. 

"No,  what?"  she  responded  icily. 

"That  it  would  be  easy  to  kill  you  and  myself. " 

Anna  turned  round,  her  face  blanched  and  eyes 
wide,  the  picture  of  terror. 

"No,  I  sha'n't  do  it.  You  needn't  be  frightened, 
you  poor  little  girl.  You  needn't  fear  anything  from 
me.  Only  I  wish  .  .  ." 

He  stretched  out  his  arms — but  not  toward  her — 
and  let  them  fall  with  a  long  sigh. 

"I  feel  queer  .  .  .  dizzy  .  .  .  but  there 
was  something  I  wanted  to  say.  It  was  .  .  . 
that  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  You  can  be  free,  you 
know  ...  if  you  should  happen  to  love  some 
body,  some  time  ...  it  will  be  all  right.  Of 
course  you  can  be  free.  Only  tell  me." 

His  voice  was  very  gentle  now.  He  went  to  Anna 
and  took  her  hand,  and  she  permitted  it,  dazed  still, 
but  not  in  fear  of  him. 

"Will  you  kiss  me  for  good-by?  It  is  good-by 
this  time  ...  for  months  at  least  .  .  .  un 
less  you  need  me  for  anything.  But  I  want  you  to 
feel  that  I  am  there  to  help  you,  if  you  need  it.  And 
if  ...  anything  goes  wrong  .  .  .  you  let 
me  know.  If  anyone  should  hurt  you  .  .  .  if  it 
turned  out  you  were  wrong  in  trusting  someone,  and 
.  .  .  you  were  ill-treated,  I  would  find  out  about 
it  too,  and  ...  I  would  .  .  .  kill  him." 

"Oh,"  breathed  Anna,  shrinking  from  him,  "you 
mustn't  say  such  things  or  I  shall  certainly  think  you 
are  insane." 

"No,  I'm  not,    I'm  quite    .    .    .    myself.    You 
303 


THE  FORERUNNER 

don't  understand,  Anna  .  .  .  poor  girl.  It's 
all  been  a  mistake  .  .  .  it's  all  my  fault  .  .  . 
I  would  have  you,  you  remember?  And  you  never 
have  been  really  mine,  never,  never,  not  for  an  in 
stant  .  .  .  and  yet  I  can't  seem  to  give  you 
up.  .  .  ." 

He  went  and  took  up  his  coat,  and  put  it  on  slowly. 

"And  yet  it's  come  to  that!  For  you  care  for  some 
one  else.  Don't  deny  it,  you  do — or  you  will." 

The  blood  flamed  up  into  his  face.  He  put  his  hand 
to  his  head,  and  then  caught  at  the  back  of  a  chair  to 
steady  himself. 

"That  dizziness    .     .     ."  he  muttered. 

Anna  ran  to  him  and  put  her  arm  round  his  shoul 
ders. 

"Sit  down  and  let  me  get  you  something,"  she 
begged.  "A  glass  of  water  anyhow — I  haven't  any 
brandy  or  anything — do  you  feel  ill?" 

"No,    no,    I'm   only    tired    .     .     .    it's   nothing 

j) 

"But  you're  going  to  stay,  aren't  you,  and  have 
dinner?  You  could  stay  here  to-night  .  .  .  you 
don't  go  till  to-morrow,  do  you?" 

Dan  looked  at  her  mistily,  even  in  his  suffering 
wondering  at  her. 

"Yes,  at  ten  to-night    ...    I  must  go  now." 

She  brought  him  a  glass  of  water.  He  took  that 
last  service  from  her  hand.  Then  they  parted,  with 
out  even  the  form  of  a  caress  for  a  sign  of  their  broken 
bond. 


304 


XI. 

the  lawn  at  Fairmont  a  group  of  people  were 
lounging  away  the  after-luncheon  hour  of  a 
golden  day.  The  men  were  smoking  and  two  of  the 
women.  In  the  quiet  air  the  smoke  dissolved  slowly, 
its  lingering  spirals  curiously  in  harmony  with  the 
spirit  of  the  Indian  Summer  day.  The  air  had  a  hint 
of  wood  smoke  too,  and  through  the  tree-vistas  could 
be  seen  the  white  wreaths  floating  over  heaps  of  dead 
leaves.  The  lawns,  cleared  that  morning,  were  al 
ready  flecked  again  with  these  yellow  and  reddish 
leaves,  falling  constantly  from  the  elms,  oaks  and 
maples  of  a  century's  growth.  The  bank  was  ter 
raced,  with  steps  and  balustrades  of  white  stone, 
down  to  the  water's  edge.  Over  the  broad  river 
hung  a  faint  mist,  which  gave  a  wonderful  distance 
where  its  banks  converged,  and  blurred  a  little  the 
opposite  bank  up  which  climbed  oaks,  elms  and  ma 
ples  in  a  fading  glow  of  autumn  color. 

The  people  were  rather  quiet,  too,  some  because 
of  a  long  luncheon,  during  which  everybody  had 
talked;  some  from  the  influence  of  the  scene.  George 
Vaughan  was  talking  a  little  with  Anna.  Nicholas 
Purcell  was  being  talked  to  by  Mrs.  Buccleugh.  Mar 
garet,  with  her  cigarette,  lay  back  in  a  low  chair  and 
idly  interrupted  from  time  to  time  Bella's  monologue, 
or  joined  in  the  conversation  of  the  other  two,  a  very 
pretty  girl  with  a  short  robust  figure  and  a  man  with 

305 


THE  FORERUNNER 

a  dark,  sensitive,  worn  face.  It  was  a  chance  gather 
ing — for  though  it  was  Anna's  first  visit  at  Fair 
mont,  she  had  not  yet  achieved  enough  importance 
in  Margaret  Vaughan's  eyes  to  have  an  occasion  ar 
ranged  for  her. 

Bella  Buccleugh  was  smoking,  too,  but  rapidly,  and 
from  the  same  necessity  of  nervous  action  that  im 
pelled  her  inconsequent  chatter.  Suddenly  she  rose, 
waving  Nicholas  imperiously  back  to  his  seat,  and  put 
her  hand  on  Margaret's  shoulder. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  in  and  talk  to  me  a  little," 
she  asked  abruptly.  "I  must  be  going  soon." 

"Of  course." 

Margaret  got  up,  with  no  apparent  enthusiasm, 
however,  and  they  walked  away  together,  their  long 
dresses  sweeping  over  the  fallen  leaves  with  a  pleas 
ant  sound.  And  Nicholas  after  a  moment  sat  down 
by  Anna.  She  turned  a  dreamy  look  on  him. 

"Isn't  this  like  a  picture?"  she  said.  "It  is  just 
too  beautiful  to  be  real." 

"It's  a  wonderful  day,"  Nicholas  assented. 

"But  it  isn't  the  day!  I  think  this  place  must  be 
beautiful  on  any  kind  of  day.  It  is  heavenly!  It 
must  be  easy  to  be  happy  here." 

"Well,  it  is,  generally,"  said  George  Vaughan 
placidly. 

He  looked  happy,  Anna  thought — content  as  a  per 
fectly  conditioned  animal.  And  his  sort  of  indolence 
made  Nicholas  look  like  a  tired  man  of  affairs. 
Vaughan's  face  was  sensuously  sensitive,  but  it  had  the 
repose  of  satisfaction.  It  was  so  quiet  that  it  seemed 
immobile.  He  had  a  remarkable  beauty,  a  lithe, 
athletic  body,  thoroughly  trained,  and  a  head  which 

306 


THE  FORERUNNER 

people  called  Greek,  but  which  was  rather  Italian — 
almost  a  Giorgione  type — in  its  physical  splendor. 

Anna  had  got  on  with  him  wonderfully  well.  He 
liked  people  who  were  not  pretentious  in  any  way — 
easy,  simple  and  good-humored  people.  Anna  was 
simple  enough,  and  she  did  not  try  at  all  to  be  im 
pressive,  he  thought,  and  seemed  to  have  no  pre- 
tentions  even  on  the  score  of  her  looks,  as  she  might 
easily  have  had.  And  she  was  much  more  at  ease 
with  George  Vaughan  than  she  had  ever  been  with 
any  of  these  people — even  Nicholas.  She  had  a  de 
lightful  feeling,  with  him,  not  only  that  being  clever 
didn't  matter,  but  that  nothing  mattered  except 
what  you  actually  were.  It  didn't  matter  how  you 
said  things  or  what  you  said,  particularly.  The  main 
thing  was  to  have  something  agreeable  to  do  or  to 
look  at,  and  to  enjoy  it.  The  process  of  translating 
his  impressions  into  accurate  speech  did  not  appeal 
to  Vaughan  as  a  thing  necessary  to  be  gone  through, 
and  he  did  not  expect  it  of  anyone  else.  His  impres 
sions  were  perfectly  definite,  but  his  speech  was  apt 
to  be  nebulous,  when  an  idea  was  demanded  of  him. 

Nicholas  was  apt  to  demand  an  idea,  very  apt  to 
confuse  a  person  not  accustomed  to  speak  or  think 
accurately.  Anna  felt  this  as  he  joined  in  their  talk. 
For  the  first  time  she  felt  that  he  was  really  active, 
even  restless.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  that  she 
would  rather  not  talk  about  what  he  seemed  inter 
ested  in— her  impressions  of  the  scene — that  she 
would  prefer  to  sit  quiet  and  simply  feel  it  all,  with 
Vaughan.  But  she  liked  immensely  to  have  Nicholas 
there  beside  her.  And  her  eyes  met  his  with  a  look 
that  said  as  much — with  the  look  of  intimacy  not  to 

307 


TJIE  FORERUNNER 

be  mistaken  in  kind  though  it  may  be  in  degree. 
George  Vaughan's  contemplative  eyes  caught  that 
look  and  it  deceived  him  into  thinking  that  Margaret 
very  likely  was  right,  and  that  Nick  was  making  love 
to  this  handsome  grass-widow. 

Meantime  Margaret  and  Mrs.  Buccleugh  had  dis 
appeared  through  a  French  window  opening  on  the 
lawn.  They  were  in  the  library.  Bella  had  thrown 
herself  on  a  lounge  and  looked  up  with  a  reckless  air. 

"I  suppose  you've  guessed,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know — but  I  thought  from  the  way  you 
talked  at  lunch  about  going  on  the  stage " 

"Yes,  it's  all  over.  This  last  thing  was  final.  It 
is  no  use  trying  any  longer,  and  I  suppose  I  might 
have  seen  it  long  ago,  if  I  hadn't  been  bound  not  to." 

"Oh,  Bella,  I  am  so  sorry."  Margaret  sat  down 
beside  her  with  a  sigh  of  distress.  "I've  been  hoping 
that  it  would  come  out  all  right." 

"But  it  won't!  And  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer. 
I —  well,  I  determined  not  to  let  myself  weaken 
this  time  and — I've  applied  for  the  divorce." 

"Oh,  Bella,  this  is  perfectly  wretched!  I  can't  do 
anything,  of  course.  It  seems  idiotic  to  ask  you  if 
you're  absolutely  sure." 

"Sure?    Why,  Madge " 

"I  mean  sure  of  yourself — of  what  you're  doing." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  how  I  can  be  any  surer.  I  know 
I  can't  stand  this  life  any  longer.  I  simply  must  get 
away  from  it  all — and  try — to  live  somehow  or  other. 
I  think  I  could  manage  to  live  away  from  him,  but  I 
can't  stand  it  to  live  with  him  any  longer." 

"And  yet  you'll  be  unhappy  if  you  do  it." 

"Oh — unhappy — but  I  sha'n't  be  humiliated  every 
308 


THE   FORERUNNER 

moment  in  my  own  eyes — as  I  am  now.  That's  the 
worst  of  it — I  feel  like  a  fool  and  worse.  And  yet  I 
can't  help  doing  what  I  do.  I  can't  help  spying  on 
him,  and  reading  his  letters  on  the  sly.  I  open  them 
over  steam  and  then  seal  them  up  again,  so  that  he 

doesn't  know .  Yes,  I  do.  When  I  see  a  letter 

that  looks  suspicious  I'm  driven  to  open  it,  I'm  forced 
to  do  it.  Oh,  who  would  ever  have  thought  that  7 
should  be  a  sneak!  You  know  how  I  like  to  have 
things  open  and  above-board.  Sometimes  I  think 
I  shouldn't  mind  what  he  did,  if  only  he  would  tell 
me  the  truth  about  it.  And  yet  I  know  it's  just  the 

truth  that  I  can't  bear.  And  so what's  the  use? 

We  might  as  well  give  it  up.  For  he  can't  change 
any  more  than  I  can.  He  can't  help  his  nature  and 
I  can't  help  being  a  jealous  idiot.  If  only  I  didn't 
care  so  much  for  him — if  I  could  amuse  myself  as  he 
does.  But  I've  tried  and  I  can't.  And  he  doesn't 
care  for  me,  Madge.  Oh,  no — not  really.  No,  he 
doesn't.  He  likes  me  well  enough  as  a  good  fellow, 
if  I  could  just  be  that.  But  he  has  no  feeling — no 
tenderness.  I  bore  him.  If  he  only  cared  for  me  I 
would  forgive  him  anything.  But  as  it  is — you  see 
— we  are  better  apart." 

Bella  was  crying,  catching  her  breath  in  little  sobs, 
between  her  low  staccato  sentences.  With  a  despair 
ing  gesture  she  abandoned  herself  to  her  tears  for 
some  moments.  Her  eyes  were  already  red  and  swol 
len  and  her  fair  skin  blotchy.  She  pushed  her  hair 
back  from  her  forehead  and  at  once  she  looked  old  and 
plain.  But  indifferently  she  faced  the  light,  gazing 
blankly  at  the  floor,  her  mouth  and  throat  trembling. 

"So  I  shall  go  up  in  the  country  for  a  while  and  he 
309 


THE   FORERUNNER 

will  stay  in  town.  He  won't  go  away  now  you  know, 
because  she  is  there.  And  do  you  know,  Madge,  I 
think  he  will  marry  her  afterward,  if  he  can.  Yes, 
he  hinted  as  much.  But  very  likely  she  won't,'  be 
cause  you  know  he  will  be  poor.  He  won't  keep  a 
cent  of  the  money  that  I  made  over  to  him  when  we 
were  married.  So  there  it  is.  Very  likely  she  will 
jilt  him  after  all.  Did  I  tell  you  I  saw  her  the  other 
night?  Somebody  pointed  her  out  to  me  in  a  box 
at  the  theatre.  She  looks  as  cold  and  calculating  as 
a  cat.  Black  hair  and  eyes — a  Spanish  sort  of  type 
— very  stunning." 

"And  what  will  you  do,  Bella?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  just  get  the  divorce  here.  Of  course 
he  won't  contest  it.  And  then,  as  I  said,  I  shall  go 
on  the  stage." 

"Seriously?    I  thought  you'd  given  that  up." 

"Only  when  it  seemed  possible  that  we  might  patch 
things  up.  It's  the  only  interest  I  have  now.  And 
you  know  I  have  the  ability.  I  don't  doubt  I  can 
really  make  a  success  if  I  work  hard  as  I  mean  to.  I 
shall  study  this  winter,  and  in  the  spring,  after  the 
divorce,  you  know,  I  don't  doubt  I  can  get  some  en 
gagement  for  next  fall.  And  I'll  come  here  for 
Christmas  just  the  same  and  we'll  do  your  plays — 
only  of  course  Bob  won't  come.  It  will  be  kept  quiet, 
you  know — it  won't  come  into  court  before  spring, 
my  lawyer  tells  me." 

"Oh,  Bella,"  Margaret  sighed  again.  She  looked 
sympathetic  and  at  the  same  time  irritated.  "How 
wretched  it  all  is!" 

"Yes,  it  is.    And  I  suppose   it's  rather  stupid  of 

me  to  talk  to  you  about  it " 

310 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Margaret  colored  at  the  blunt  allusion  to  her  own 
experience,  and  looked  more  irritated  and  less  sym 
pathetic. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  talk  to  me 
about  it  ...  I'm  glad  you'll  come  for  Christ 
mas."  She  moved  to  a  chair  not  quite  so  near 
Bella.  "I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  without  you. 
I've  decided  to  have  the  stage  put  in  the  billiard- 
room — I  had  a  man  down  the  other  day  and  he  said 
that  could  be  done  very  well.  They're  going  to  begin 
work  next  week.  .  .  .  There's  Millicent  and  her 
most  devoted.  She's  going  to  sing,  I  suppose." 

The  pretty  girl  with  her  squire  passed  the  library 
windows  and  went  into  the  next  room.  After  some 
idling  with  the  piano-keys  she  began  Schubert's  "Auf 
dem  Wasser  zu  Singen."  Her  voice  was  pure  and 
light,  with  a  soft  caressing  quality. 

"Do  you  know,  I  think  that  is  serious,"  said  Mar 
garet.  "At  least  with  him." 

"Oh,  do  you?  .  .  .  And  how  about  the  other 
.  .  .  Nick's  affair?" 

"Oh,  as  serious  as  usual." 

"He  likes  stupid  women,  doesn't  he?    All  men  do." 

"Does  she  bore  you?  I  don't  find  her  exciting  my 
self.  By  the  way,  though,  I  believe  she's  thinking 
of  acting,  too — or  light  opera  or  something.  Nick 
got  her  a  teacher,  and  he  says  she  has  a  big  florid  sort 
of  voice.  And  with  her  looks,  of  course,  she  can 
easily  get  into  something.  Has  he  been  asking  you 
about  managers  and  so  on?" 

"Yes,  he  has." 

"Well,  it  was  for  her.  He  got  out  of  me  everything 
I  ever  knew  on  the  subject,  too." 

311 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Bella  sighed  and  got  up  restlessly. 

"Let's  go  somewhere  else.  I  don't  feel  like  listen 
ing  to  Millicent's  piping.  Or  you  go  back  to  them 
and  I'll  come  in  a  few  minutes.  I'll  run  up  and  bathe 
my  eyes,  I  am  always  so  hideous  when  I  cry.  So 
Bob  tells  me.  What  time  are  they  all  going  back?" 

"I  suppose  the  four- thirty." 

"Well,  I'll  go  with  them.  I'd  like  to  talk  with 
Nick.  He's  such  a  dear,  isn't  he?  .  .  .  And 
George  too.  You're  happy,  aren't  you,  Madge?" 

"Yes,  I  am  happy .  If — if  I  can  only  keep 

so,"  Margaret  said  softly,  looking  out  at  the  group 
on  the  lawn.  "But  we  haven't  money.enough  really. 
I  wish  I  could  make  some.  Perhaps  my  Wyoming 
man  will  make  some  for  me.  If  only  I  had  the  cour 
age  to  plunge  on  something.  That's  the  only  way 
to  get  anything  in  this  world." 

"I  suppose  it  is.  I'd  plunge  fast  enough  if  I  could 
see  anything  I  wanted.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  shall  get 
over  this  after  a  while.  Do  you  think  so?  For  if 
I'm  going  on  caring  for  him  just  the  same  I  may  as 
well  go  out  and  jump  in  the  river.  I  shouldn't  mind 
a  bit  plunging  on  that!" 

"Poor  Bella are  you  as  desperate  as  all  that? 

And  I  thought  it  was  all  smoothed  over!  Up  at 
Lenox  he  seemed  so  sweet  and  nice  and  talked  about 
you  so  affectionately " 

"Oh,  affectionately — yes,  as  if  I  were  his  maiden 
aunt.  Well,  he  can't  help  it  any  more  than  I  can. 
I  only  say  that  it's  infernal  luck  for  two  people  like 
us  ever  to  be  attracted  to  each  other.  There  are 
plenty  of  women  who  could  get  along  with  Bob  per 
fectly.  Just  give  him  a  free  rein  and  he's  sweet  as 

312 


THE   FORERUNNER 

the  day  is  long.  If  I  only  had  the  same  tempera 
ment.  .  .  .  The  tunes  when  he's  liked  me  best 
have  been  when  I  was  trying  to  be  in  love  with  some 
body  else.  If  I  could  succeed  I've  no  doubt  he'd 
really  be  fond  of  me.  But  I'm  such  a  sentimental 
idiot,  I  can't." 

Bella  showed  a  disposition  to  linger  and  begin  again, 
but  Margaret  moved  decisively  toward  the  window. 

"Come  out  as  soon  as  you  can/'  she  said. 

"Well,  it's  nearly  four  o'clock — we'll  have  to  start 
down  soon,  I  suppose." 

And  she  trailed  dejectedly  out  into  the  hall  and 
upstairs.  Margaret  went  back  to  the  people  on  the 
lawn,  conscious  that  she  had  not  been  very  consoling. 
It  seemed  really  absurd  to  her  that  anyone  should 
have  hysterics  or  heroics  over  Bobby  Buccleugh; 
and  she  deeply  disliked  to  have  Bella  seem  to  claim 
any  community  of  experience  with  her. 

Indeed  there  was  none,  except  that  they  both  loved, 
and  really  cared  for  nothing  else.  But  love  of  Bobby 
Buccleugh  had  no  excuse  for  being  a  grand  passion 
— couldn't  be,  in  fact — whereas  love  of  George 
Vaughan  couldn't  well  be  anything  else.  That  was 
in  her  mind  as  she  went  toward  him. 

The  three  were  watching  her,  too,  as  she  approached 
tall  and  graceful  in  her  rippling  white  dress,  and  none 
of  them  would  have  denied  that  she  looked  the  ideal 
chatelaine.  She  was  at  her  best  in  her  home. 

The  setting  of  the  whole  place  was  immensely  be 
coming  to  her — the  broad  green  reaches  and  noble 
trees,  the  stately,  quiet  house,  the  unmarred  beauty 
all  about,  the  air  of  ease,  peace  and  order  throughout 
her  domain. 

313 


THE   FORERUNNER 

It  was  this  aspect  of  it  all  that  most  deeply  im 
pressed  Anna.  To  just  this  sort  of  thing  she  was 
peculiarly  susceptible.  Her  ambition  had  been  to 
possess,  to  be,  something  like  this  herself,  even  though 
her  dreams  had  never  reached  anything  so  beautiful 
as  this  reality.  In  the  country  of  her  birth,  all  was 
new,  bare,  crude,  the  growth  of  scarcely  one  genera 
tion.  Trees,  grass  and  buildings  were  created  for  the 
needs  of  the  time;  and  all  seemed  temporary  and 
hardly  rooted  in  the  soil.  A  century  had  completely 
changed  the  face  of  that  country.  Between  the 
mountains  and  the  sea  only  a  few  mouldering  cloisters 
showed  where  time  had  passed,  and  there  age  was 
not  impressive;  it  was  too  much  out  of  the  picture. 
But  here,  in  this  softer,  greener,  more  finished  land, 
each  year  gave  an  added  value  in  beauty,  not  adding 
something  new,  but  deepening  the  charm  of  what 
was  permanent.  Permanence  and  stability  had  a 
poetic  attraction  for  Anna's  clinging  and  conservative 
mind.  She  would  certainly  have  been  no  more  ad 
venturous  than  a  limpet,  if  she  had  had  a  suitable 
rock  to  cling  to.  To  be  the  careful  administratrix  of 
Fairmont  would  have  been  career  enough  for  her. 

Nicholas  was  rather  surprised  and  puzzled  by  her 
evident  feeling;  her  pleasure  and  the  wistfulness  of 
her  face  were  more  marked  than  he  had  ever  seen  in 
her  before.  She  seemed  unable  or  unwilling  to  find 
words  for  her  emotion;  and  there  were  long  silences 
during  which  she  sat  looking  away  through  the  dream 
ing  sunlight  and  shadow  of  the  park,  or  out  across 
the  river  or  up  at  the  gray  stone  facade  of  the  house, 
and  the  two  men  watched  her.  When  Millicent  be 
gan  to  sing,  the  light,  quick,  passionate  melody  of  the 

314 


THE   FORERUNNER 

water-song,  softened  by  distance,  seemed  to  come 
floating  up  from  the  river  itself,  in  magical  snatches 
borne  by  breeze  and  tide. 

She  sang  well.  They  all  listened — Margaret  too, 
who  came  out  in  the  middle  of  it — till  the  last  beau 
tiful  phrase  ended.  Then  at  her  suggestion  they 
walked  down  to  an  angle  of  the  terrace  from  which 
the  sweep  of  the  river  could  best  be  seen.  One  of  the 
gardeners,  a  Japanese,  who  was  at  work  near  there, 
stood  up  and  bowed  nearly  to  the  ground  as  they 
passed,  and  the  master  and  mistress  nodded  to  him. 
Anna  was  still  in  her  dream.  The  three  people  with 
her  did  not  disturb  it;  they  belonged  in  it,  with  their 
grace  and  sweetness  of  manner,  for  Margaret  was 
sweet  to  her,  too.  And  before  it  all  ended  there  was 
one  more  picture  to  take  away  with  her.  On  the  way 
back  to  the  house  Nicholas  turned  aside,  having,  he 
announced,  caught  a  glimpse  through  the  trees  of  his 
nephew;  and  the  rest  followed  him.  The  baby  was 
asleep  in  his  carriage  under  a  fluffy  white  parasol;  be 
side  him  was  his  nurse,  a  woman  with  a  refined  and 
intelligent  face.  The  child  was  about  a  year  old, 
strong  and  handsome,  with  an  unusual  amount  of 
curly  fair  hair,  and  golden  lashes  showing  against  the 
sweet  flush  in  his  cheeks.  Of  the  four  people  stand 
ing  about  the  carriage  three  wore  the  same  expression 
— the  same  solicitude  and  half  humorous  tenderness 
— as  they  contemplated  the  heir  of  Fairmont.  Anna 
noted  that  look,  and  Margaret's  glance  at  her  hus 
band;  and  then  she  felt  the  presence  of  happiness — 
if  that  is  not  too  calm  a  word — at  least  of  a  poignant 
joy  in  life.  It  was  a  keen,  a  lasting  impression  that 
she  carried  away. 

315 


THE  FORERUNNER 

They  walked  down  the  hill  to  the  station,  Mrs. 
Buccleugh,  Purcell  and  Anna,  and  after  them  Milli- 
cent  and  her  painter,  who  had  been  resurrected  at 
the  last  moment  from  the  music-room.  Once  in  the 
train,  which  was  full,  Millicent  and  the  painter  disap 
peared  into  one  of  the  forward  cars.  There  was  but 
one  vacant  seat  left  and  Anna  found  herself  put  into 
that  with  Bella  Buccleugh,  while  Purcell  stood  in  the 
aisle  talking  to  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
took  part  of  a  seat  at  the  other  end  of  the  car.  Neither 
of  the  two  women  particularly  wanted  that  half-hour's 
tete-a-tete.  Either  would  vastly  have  preferred 
one  with  Purcell.  But  Anna  had  a  question  or  two 
to  ask  of  Bella  Buccleugh  which  she  could  not  so 
readily  have  asked  of  him. 

"Tell  me,  has  Mrs.  Vaughan  ever  been  on  the 
stage?"  she  inquired  as  soon  as  Nicholas  had  left 
them. 

"Oh,  no — she  studied  for  it  once,  though,  before 
she  was  divorced,  you  know.  Why?" 

"I  thought  from  the  way  she  talked  at  luncheon 
that  she  had  acted." 

"Oh,  the  school  where  she  studied  gives  public 
matinees,  don't  you  know?  She  appeared  at  some 
of  those.  I  believe  she  thought  of  going  in  seriously 
for  the  profession  at  one  time,  but  it  didn't  come  to 
that.  She  fell  in  love  with  George  Vaughan  instead." 

"But  .  .  .  divorced?  How  do  you  mean?  I 
didn't  know  she  had  been  married  before." 

"Didn't  you?  How  funny!  It's  rather  a  ro 
mance." 

Bella  talked  in  a  quick  monotone,  hard  to  follow 
in  the  noise  of  the  train.  She  had  a  brown  veil  droop- 

316 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Ing  over  her  hat-brim  which  partly  hid  her  face  from 
Anna.  But  the  nervous  movements  of  her  hands, 
the  twitching  of  her  mouth,  and  her  indifference  to 
what  she  was  saying,  could  not  be  hidden.  Anna 
wondered  what  was  the  matter  with  her.  At  luncheon 
she  had  been  especially  lively  and  gay. 

"Why  is  it  a  romance?" 

"Oh,  it's  the  kind  of  thing  you're  always  reading 
about,  a  life  and  death  affair,  don't  you  know?  She 
was  unhappy  with  her  first  husband,  but  he  wouldn't 
give  her  any  legal  ground  for  divorce,  because  he  was 
in  politics  and  didn't  want  the  talk.  Finally  she  left 
him  and  was  about  to  go  on  the  stage  when  she  met 
George  Vaughan.  They  fell  in  love  instantly  and 
then  of  course  Margaret  was  simply  wild  for  her 
divorce.  She  went  to  Dakota  and  got  it  and  then 
she  married  George." 

"Oh,"  murmured  Anna,  quite  shocked. 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  no  secret.  And  you  can't  blame  her, 
when  you  see  how  they  care  for  one  another.  They're 
absolutely  devoted.  And  that's  the  only  thing  that 
counts  anyway,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  it  is  for  them.  They  live  up  in  the  country 
all  the  time,  don't  see  many  people,  and  they  both  are 
happy.  They  have  a  pretty  place,  haven't  they?" 

"Yes,  beautiful." 

"It's  been  in  George's  family  for  nearly  a  century. 
But  he  never  had  money  enough  to  live  there.  It 
was  always  let,  till  he  married  Margare't.  Even 
now  they  have  barely  enough.  But  of  course  Mar 
garet  will  have  plenty,  some  day.  She  and  Nicholas 
will  be  rather  rich.  Nicholas  is  a  dear,  isn't  he?" 

317 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  suppose  he  is." 

"Won't  you  even  admit  that/'  Bella  sighed.  "How 
stuffy  the  car  is!  Shall  we  open  a  window?" 

"If  you  like." 

The  track  ran  for  some  distance  close  to  the  river. 
And  Anna,  looking  out  on  it,  travelled  back  in  her 
thoughts  to  Fairmont,  past  which  this  blue  water 
flowed  on  its  way  to  the  sea.  Fairmont  was  even 
more  interesting  to  her  now,  in  the  light  of  Bella's 
gossip.  She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  thoughts  that 
she  fairly  forgot,  for  some  moments,  her  companion. 
And  Bella,  looking  at  her  in  despair,  sank  back  in  her 
corner  of  the  seat.  Rather  than  be  silent  she  had 
snatched  at  the  first  subject  offered,  and  would  have 
chattered  all  the  way  to  town,  given  any  encourage 
ment.  But  she  was  not  capable  just  now  of  much 
mental  exertion.  Presently,  however,  she  began 
again  and  talked  about  the  theatre,  and  Anna  lent 
a  half  attentive  ear.  At  another  time  she  would  have 
listened  eagerly,  but  now  a  sudden  new  light  on  her 
own  situation  blinded  her  to  anything  else. 

Both  were  glad  enough  when  the  journey  ended. 
Anna  had  expected  that  Purcell  would  go  back  with 
her  to  the  boarding-house  for  a  little  while  before  din 
ner,  and  he  had  intended  to  go.  But  as  they  were 
getting  out  of  the  train,  Bella  made  a  sudden  whis 
pered  appeal  to  him. 

"Do  come  and  talk  to  me  for  half  an  hour!  I'm 
so  miserable,  I  can't  bear  to  be  alone." 

Moved  by  her  look,  more  than  by  her  words,  he  con 
sented;  unable  indeed  to  resist  any  appeal  to  his  char 
ity.  Anna  was  disappointed.  But  as  he  put  her 
into  a  station-cab  he  said: 

318 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"I'm  sorry.    It's  a  bore,  but  I  can't  help  it.    Are 
you  going  to  be  at  home  this  evening?" 
"Oh,  of  course.    I'm  always  there." 
"I  mean,  may  I  come?" 
"Oh,  yes." 


319 


XII. 

TT  was  the  first  time  he  had  come  in  the  evening, 
though  Anna  saw  him  at  least  every  other  day. 
She  had  not  yet  got  rid  of  her  fear  of  the  opinions  of 
other  people.  The  doubt  as  to  Miss  Thaw's  opinion 
of  her,  as  to  the  opinion  of  the  maid  who  so  often  an 
nounced  Purcell,  frequently  made  her  uncomfortable. 
But  she  did  not  yield  anything  to  this  doubt.  She 
cared  now  so  much  more  for  Purcell  than  for  anything 
else  in  her  life  that  she  was  slowly  gaining  a  certain 
independence  of  mind.  She  was  capable  now  of  ignor 
ing  anything  that  might  interfere  with  their  relations, 
and  of  deliberately  putting  him  before  all  else. 

But  the  feeling  that  Miss  Thaw  was  probably  criti 
cising  her  and  very  likely  gossiping  about  her  to  Flora 
O'Beirne,  made  her  stiff  and  unresponsive  to  the 
maiden  lady's  social  advances.  Miss  Thaw,  having 
honestly  tried  to  be  friendly  with  her,  finally  gave  up 
the  effort,  and  reported  to  Flora  her  repulse.  And 
Flora  cooled  still  more  toward  her  protegee.  In  fact 
they  seldom  saw  one  another  now. 

Anna  was  practically  solitary  except  for  Nicholas. 
Mrs.  Vaughan  had  called  on  her  twice,  but  they  had 
not  got  very  far  toward  intimacy.  Anna,  handi 
capped  by  the  consciousness  of  her  material  surround 
ings,  and  her  anomalous  position,  was  unable  to  meet 
her  visitor  frankly.  She  was  melancholy,  ill  at  ease, 
and  showed  it.  And  she  made  no  effort  to  interest 

320 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Mrs.  Vaughan.  From  a  feeling  that  she  could  not 
meet  more  fortunate  people  on  even  terms  she  was 
despairingly  willing  to  cut  herself  off  from  them  alto 
gether.  And  this  unhappiness  affected  even  her  re 
lation  with  Nicholas.  She  did  not  feel  sure  in  any 
way  of  him. 

Cramped  thus  on  the  social  side,  she  had  thrown 
herself  with  all  the  more  energy  into  her  work.  Herr 
Pannier  required  her  to  unlearn  all  that  she  thought 
she  knew  about  singing,  and  to  begin  at  the  alphabet 
of  his  method.  She  worked  faithfully,  but  so  far  had 
not  earned  a  word  of  praise  from  the  gloomy  little 
man.  She  liked  him,  however,  though  she  felt  rather 
hopeless  of  attaining  the  delicate  precision,  the  thor 
ough  workmanship  that  he  required.  In  manner  and 
appearance  he  was  a  typical  drill-master — a  small 
man,  neat  and  blond,  with  a  pointed  beard  and  blue 
eyes,  severe,  rigid,  and  melancholy.  He  bound  her 
down  to  the  harshest  aspect  of  work;  and  promised 
her  some  years  of  it  before  she  would  be  fit  for  any 
professional  appearance. 

But  Anna  was  coming  to  dwell  more  and  more  on 
another  prospect — the  possibility  of  using  all  her  pres 
ent  capital  of  knowledge,  youth,  and  beauty  in  an 
immediate  stage  career.  She  knew  that  she  could 
sing  better  and  that  she  was  handsomer  than  most 
of  the  stars  of  light  music  and  burlesque  whom  she 
had  taken  pains  to  see.  She  thought  she  could  easily 
learn  to  act  as  well  as  they  did.  And  whatever  the 
deprivations  of  that  life,  at  least  it  would  have  some 
satisfactions.  If  it  be  true  that  nothing  saddens  a 
woman  so  much  as  the  suppression  of  her  vanity, 
Anna  had  her  reasons  for  being  sad.  She  almost  never 

321 


THE  FORERUNNER 

now  felt  any  satisfaction  in  herself,  and  so  she  was 
almost  always  constrained  and  depressed.  Even 
with  Nicholas  she  could  rarely  expand  in  that  way. 
His  attention  to  her  was  flattery  in  a  sense,  but  she 
could  not  take  it  as  her  right.  She  could  not  but 
feel  grateful  for  it,  and  tremble  lest  she  should  lose 
it.  It  meant  to  her  so  much  more  than  it  did  to  him 
— or  so  she  thought.  For  she  had  nothing  but  him, 
while  he  had — all  that  world  of  his  of  which  she  knew 
nothing.  Because  of  his  experience,  so  much  beyond 
her  gauge,  because  of  the  multifarious  claims  on  him, 
part  of  which  she  knew  about  and  part  guessed,  he 
seemed  above  any  need  of  her.  And  yet — he  did 
not  come  entirely  out  of  kindness  to  her — she  was 
sure  of  that. 

The  kindness,  though,  was  there,  and  she  appealed 
more  strongly  to  him  because  she  was  unhappy  and 
alone,  and  still  more  because  he  obviously  mattered 
to  her.  Nicholas  had  the  instinct  of  solvency  highly 
developed;  it  was  necessary  to  him  to  satisfy  any 
reasonable  claim  upon  him,  even  when  a  good  deal 
of  boredom  to  himself  was  involved.  But  there  was 
no  boredom  in  the  time  he  gave  to  Anna.  He  was 
strongly  attracted  to  her.  And  Anna  instinctively 
and  without  thought  presented  her  most  attractive 
aspect  to  him.  Just  as  she  was  prettier  for  him  than 
for  anyone  else,  as  his  coming  brought  light  and  color 
to  her  face,  so  her  whole  nature  softened  and  glowed 
for  him.  It  was  not  only  that  she  ardently  desired 
to  please  him,  but  that  he  pleased  her  so  completely. 
She  accepted  him  without  question  or  criticism,  with 
a  keen  interest  and  satisfaction  in  everything  he  said 
or  did,  that  was  the  most  artless  flattery,  Even  the 

322 


THE   FORERUNNER 

least  vain  of  men  basks  in  the  atmosphere  approba- 
tive.  Purcell  had  had  a  good  deal  of  it,  but  not  much 
with  so  naive  a  quality  as  Anna  gave  him.  And  be 
sides  the  June  sunshine  of  a  pretty  woman's  admira 
tion  there  was,  too,  just  a  tang  of  electricity  in  the 
air,  a  hint  of  something  brewing  beyond  the  horizon. 
They  were  very  friendly  and — a  little  more. 

When  Nicholas  came  in,  soon  after  dinner,  he  re 
laxed  into  his  favorite  chair  with  an  air  of  being  at 
home,  and  a  smile  that  confessed  past  weariness  and 
present  pleasure. 

'That  was  a  good  deal  of  a  bore,"  he  said.  "Even 
more  than  I  expected." 

His  disposition  to  be  practically  kind,  in  fact,  did 
not  involve  any  altruistic  or  amiable  pose.  He  was, 
Anna  had  found,  extremely  frank  as  to  the  faults  of 
his  friends,  and  if  they  tired  or  irritated  him  he  was 
apt  to  say  as  much,  both  to  the  offender  and  to  any 
other  person  in  his  confidence. 

"I'm  sorry.  What  was  the  matter  with  her?  She 
acted  so  queerly  on  the  train." 

"Oh,  hysterics.  Her  nerves  run  away  with  her. 
And  then  she  is  pretty  unhappy  just  now." 

"Is  she?  What  about?  I  thought  she  was  a  par 
ticularly  gay  person." 

"Well — this  is  a  secret  just  now,  though  it  won't 
be  long — she's  getting  a  divorce,  though  she's  fond 
of  her  husband.  He's  treated  her  rather  badly." 

"That  nice,  jolly-looking  man?  I  saw  him  once — 
the  first  time  I  saw  you.  And  I  thought  you  were 
all  so  gay  and  happy,  and  I  envied  you  so!  And 
now — well,  some  of  you  are  happy,  to  be  sure.  Your 
sister  is,  isn't  she?  And  no  wonder.  She  has  every- 

323 


THE  FORERUNNER 

thing  to  make  her  so.    I  think  she  is  the  luckiest 
woman  I've  ever  known." 

"Did  you  fall  in  love  with  George  too?"  Nicholas 
asked,  with  his  lazy  smile. 

"Oh,  yes,  and  the  place  and  everything.  It  was 
so  beautiful!  I  never  saw  anything  like  it  before." 

Anna  sat  quite  near  Purcell,  leaning  forward,  her  el 
bows  on  her  knees  and  her  palms  supporting  her  round 
chin;  looking  now  at  him  and  now  out  the  open 
window.  The  tiny  garden  was  flooded  with  hazy 
moonlight,  the  warm  night  was  as  magical  as  the  day 
had  been,  and  only  the  faintest  breeze  swayed  the 
white  curtains  inward.  The  unshaded  gas-light 
shone  directly  down  on  Anna's  young  face,  her  flushed 
cheeks,  large  innocent  eyes,  and  golden  hair.  She 
was  still  under  the  spell  of  the  day's  pleasure,  and  the 
attraction  which  drew  her  to  Nicholas  was  somehow 
strengthened  by  it. 

"That  seems  to  me  an  ideal  life,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"By  the  side  of  it  I  hate  what  I  am  trying  to  do.  That 
kind  of  thing  is  what  I  should  like,  but  I  can  never 
have  it." 

"Never?    Why  not?" 

"Because — — "  She  paused  for  a  moment.  She 
had  never  spoken  to  Purcell  about  Dan  except  in  the 
most  impersonal  and  non-committal  way,  but  one 
of  the  ideas  she  had  lately  imbibed  was  that  freedom 
of  speech  about  one's  own  affairs  was  not  only  per 
missible  but  proper.  It  was  in  line  with  all  the  free 
dom  of  these  people's  lives,  and  she  was  coming  to 
accept  their  point  of  view.  And  yet  she  was  still 
unable  to  break  through  her  reserve. 

Nicholas,  looking  at  her,  waited. 
324 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  because  I  can  never  settle  down,  really,"  Anna 
went  on  hurriedly.  "My  husband's  business  will  al 
ways  take  all  his  time  and  strength.  And  he  will  al 
ways  want  to  be  in  the  West — and  everything  is  so 
different  there — so  new  and  unfinished.  And  I've 
been  thinking,  you  know,  about  going  on  the  stage. 
But  I  hate  the  idea  of  it!" 

Tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  all  the  unhappiness  of 
her  general  situation  emphasized  her  dislike  of  this 
particular  phase. 

"Why  do  you  hate  it?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Oh,  because — I'm  not  fit  for  that  sort  of  a  life. 
I  can  never  be  a  first-class  artist,  I  know  that  well 
enough.  I  could  never  sing  in  grand  opera,  or  any 
thing  like  that.  And  I  could  never  act  well.  I  could 
sing  comic  opera,  or  in  musical  shows,  but  it  all  seems 
— horrid  to  me,  really.  Sometimes  I  think  I'll  do 
it,  but  I  don't  really  want  to  a  bit.  I  should  be  all 
alone,  and  everyone  says  disagreeable  things  happen 
— and  then " 

"Yes,  and  then?" 

"I  should  lose  what  I  really  want." 

"And  what  do  you  really  want?" 

"I  want  to  be  at  home,  somewhere.  And  to  have 
some  social  life,  and  some  nice  place  that  I  can  man 
age  myself  and  feel  that  I'm  really  doing  something 
with.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  public  character." 

And  she  smiled  ruefully  through  her  tears. 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  were  cut  out  for  one,  my 
self,"  said  Purcell.  "But  how  about  your  original 
idea — or  is  a  concert  singer  a  public  character  too,  in 
your  sense?" 

"Well,  not  as  much  of  course.  But,"  she  sighed, 
325 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"it  would  take  years  of  trailing  before  I  could  do  any 
thing.  Before  I  could  sing  as  well  as  Miss  Farrell 
does,  for  instance.  She  has  studied  abroad,  of 
course?" 

"Oh,  yes,  with  Marchesi,  I  believe,  for  several 
years." 

"There,  you  see.  And  then  I  don't  know  even 
that  I  can  go  on  here  as  I'm  doing  now.  I'm  not  cer 
tain  of  a  thing!" 

Nicholas  waited,  but  again  the  impulse  failed  to 
carry  her  into  complete  confession. 

"Tell  me,  what  did  your  sister  think  about  the 
stage?  Did  she  feel  that  way  about  it?  Mrs.  Buc- 
cleugh  said  she  intended  to  act  at  one  time." 

"No,  I  don't  think  she  felt  the  drawbacks  as 
strongly  as  you  do.  But  then,  she's  adventurous 
rather — she  likes  experience  for  its  own  sake,  and 
you  don't,  do  you?" 

"No,  only  when  it's  pleasant!" 

"And  then  she  simply  had  to  do  something.  She's 
a  very  restless  person,  or  she  used  to  be,  and  she 
wasn't  happy,  and  that  seemed  to  be  the  only  thing 
she  wanted  to  do." 

"Do  all  women  think  about  the  stage  when  they're 
unhappy?" 

"Oh,  no,  some  go  in  for  charity,  I  believe,  and 
some  for  society.  Some  go  to  the  church  and  some 
to  the  devil." 

"I  don't  see  that  any  of  those  would  do  for  me," 
said  Anna.  "I  can't  go  in  for  society  and  I'm  not 
religious  or  charitable.  And  the  devil  doesn't  at 
tract  me  much  either." 

"You  mean  that  you're  unhappy?" 
326 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  yes.  You  knew  that,  didn't  you?  But  I'm 
not  going  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

She  sprang  up  from  her  chair  and  went  to  the 
piano.  Nicholas  followed. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  you've  been  bored  enough  to-day! 
You've  heard  Mrs.  Buccleugh's  troubles  and  that's 
enough  for  one  day.  And  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
away  and  tell  somebody  else  how  I've  bored  you!" 

"That  wasn't  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  say,"  said 
Nicholas  coldly.  He  moved  away  from  her  and  took 
up  his  hat;  then  came  back,  putting  out  his  hand. 
"Perhaps  I'd  better  go,"  he  said  in  the  same  tone, 
with  the  same  look,  hurt  and  resentful. 

"Good-night,"  faltered  Anna.  She  let  him  get  to 
the  door,  then  her  pride  went  down  with  a  rush. 
Never  had  she  seen  him  look  that  way,  offended  with 
her;  and  terror  lest  there  should  be  a  real  break  be 
tween  them  overmastered  her. 

"Why  are  you  angry?  I  didn't  mean  to  say  any 
thing  to  hurt  you,"  she  protested. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  were  perpetrating  a  joke?" 
inquired  Nicholas  ironically.  He  paused  with  his 
hand  on  the  door,  quite  conscious  that  he  was  bully 
ing  her. 

"Well,  not  entirely.     I  thought  it  might  bore  you." 

"No,  I  don't  believe  you  did.  But  you  thought 
I  might  tell  somebody  else  that  it  did.  Or  do  you 
mean  that  was  the  joke?" 

"I  don't  know,"  murmured  Anna. 

"You  did  really  think  so,  then?  Don't  you  know 
that  if  you  stood  on  the  same  plane  with  Mrs.  Buc- 
cleugh,  I  wouldn't  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  did  about 

327 


THE   FORERUNNER 

her?  I  spoke  to  you  as  I  might  to — well,  to  my  sis 
ter,  for  instance.  It  wouldn't  occur  to  her  that  it 
wasn't  safe  to  say  whatever  she  chose  to  me." 

"It  wouldn't  to  me  either.     It  wasn't  that!" 

"You  began  to  say  something,  and  then  suddenly 
stopped  as  though  you  were  afraid.  And  then  you 
said— what  you  did  about  Mrs.  Buccleugh.  I  don't 
know  what  else  that  means." 

"I  only  meant  that  I  thought  you  would  be 
bored." 

"Well,  that  doesn't  show  any  large  amount  of  per- 
cipience — or  confidence — on  your  part.  But  I  dare 
say  I've  deserved  this  in  some  way." 

Anna  looked  miserable  and  sullen. 

"I'm  sorry  I  said  anything  at  all,"  she  said  stiffly. 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  anything 
you  don't  want  to  say,"  added  Nicholas  relentlessly. 
"But  neither  do  I  want  you  to  say  that  kind  of  thing 
again.  Good-by,  Anna." 

"Good-by,"  she  murmured  inaudibly. 

This  time  she  did  not  call  him  back,  but  stood 
rigid,  leaning  against  the  piano,  her  hands  behind 
her,  palms  down  on  the  keys,  until  she  heard  the  house- 
door  close  after  him.  Then  she  sank  down  on  the 
piano-stool  in  a  revery.  Her  face  changed  quickly. 
Her  lips  curved,  her  heavy  eyelids  drooped,  she 
smiled.  Purcell's  last  speech  had  meant  anything 
but  that  he  was  not  coming  back.  For  the  first  time 
he  had  called  her  by  her  name — though  for  some 
time  past  they  had  dropped  the  formality  of  sur 
names,  and  addressed  one  another  without  any  at 
all.  This  quarrel,  since  it  was  not  to  end  their  in 
timacy,  would  certainly  advance  it.  Nicholas,  for 

328 


THE  FORERUNNER 

that  reason,  had  not  been  at  all  sorry  to  quarrel.  And 
Anna  was  not  sorry  either,  for  now  that  she  thought 
it  over,  the  cause  of  it  was  flattering  to  her.  He  had 
been  hurt  because  she  had  not  been  willing  to  admit 
that  they  were  as  much  to  one  another  as  they  really 
were.  She  knew  well  enough  that  she  stood  on  a 
different  plane  from  Bella  Buccleugh,  and  that  in 
some  way  he  cared  about  her,  and  would  be  inter 
ested  in  whatever  concerned  her. 

Why  was  it,  then,  that  she  had  been  unable  to  talk 
to  him  about  her  troubles,  as  plenty  of  other  women 
did,  whom  he  cared  nothing  about?  She  did  not  now 
believe — as  she  would  have  done  earlier — that  Nicho 
las  would  think  the  less  of  her  because  she  had  dis 
agreed  with  her  husband.  That,  it  seemed,  was  an 
ordinary  thing  to  do.  The  two  women  whom  she  had 
seen  to-day  had  done  it,  and  they  had  not  let  the 
mistake  spoil  their  lives.  Margaret  Vaughan  had 
freed  herself  from  an  unhappy  marriage  and  she  was 
now  happy.  Bella  Buccleugh  had  decided  that  she 
would  be  less  unhappy  without  her  husband  than 
with  him,  and  she  was  going  to  free  herself.  It  was 
possible,  then,  in  a  way  for  even  a  woman  to  begin 
over  again;  and  from  the  new  point  of  view,  it  was 
a  courageous  and  right  thing  to  do.  This  point  of 
view  appealed  to  Anna,  since  it  seemed  to  open  a  pos 
sible  prospect  to  her  desire  for  happiness.  And  yet 
she  was  shaken  by  the  sweeping  away  of  all  her  old 
traditions  which  it  involved.  To  live  for  one's  emo 
tions,  as  these  people  apparent^  did,  was  certainly 
freedom,  but  in  a  way  it  was  terribly  unsettling.  In 
a  way  it  offset  the  material  solidity  of  their  fortunes. 
Still  in  the  end  it  was  the  determination  to  be  happy, 
329 


THE  FORERUNNER 

at  whatever  cost  of  initiative  energy,  that  seemed  to 
her  the  most  wonderful  thing  about  them. 

Anna  envied  them  this  power  of  striking  out 
strongly  for  themselves;  she  felt  that  she  lacked  it. 
Though  she  began  to  feel  that  it  was  a  good  thing  to 
be  bold,  she  was  prevented  even  from  acknowledging 
to  herself  what  it  was  that  she  wanted,  much  more 
from  seeking  it  actively.  Much  as  she  was  interested 
in  Nicholas  Purcell,  her  pride  and  timidity  forbade 
her  to  make  any  frank  claim  on  him,  or  even  to  recog 
nize  the  extent  of  her  interest. 

She  was  afraid  to  follow  out  the  ideas  suggested 
by  the  day's  events  to  their  conclusion;  afraid  of  the 
possible  action  suggested  thereby  to  herself.  She 
abandoned  herself  instead  to  a  vague  delicious  dream, 
in  which  she  and  Nicholas  were  together,  without 
any  harsh  reference  to  the  actual  facts  of  life. 

She  sat  still  on  the  piano-stool,  for  some  time, 
dreaming,  and  unconsciously  waiting  for  Nicholas  to 
come  back.  She  did  not  really  think  that  he  would 
come,  and  yet  she  stayed  up  till  half-past  ten,  trying 
to  read  a  little  in  Maeterlinck's  'Treasure  of  the 
Humble,"  a  book  he  had  brought  her,  but  finding  her 
own  meditations  more  enthralling  than  Maeterlinck's. 
Then  she  went  slowly  about  her  preparations  for  bed, 
letting  down  the  false  book-case  and  removing  the 
screens  that  concealed  her  toilet  arrangements.  The 
last  thing  in  her  mind  at  night  and  the  first  in  the 
morning  was  the  question,  When  would  Nicholas 
come  again  and  how  would  they  meet? 

She  woke  to  a  vague  feeling  of  happiness,  a  secret 
excitement  that  made  the  whole  day  bright  to  her. 
She  thought  that  perhaps  he  would  come  to  take  her 

330 


THE  FORERUNNER 

out  to  dinner,  as  several  times  he  had  done.  Having 
bungled  her  practice  in  the  morning  she  went  to  her 
lesson  unable  to  keep  her  mind  on  it.  In  consequence 
Herr  Pannier  made  her  a  scene.  He  began  to  pace 
the  room  while  she  was  going  through  her  exercises 
— a  sure  sign  of  disturbance — and  finally  seized  his 
brow  in  his  hands  and  stopped  her  in  the  middle  of 
a  scale.  The  body  of  his  remarks  being  in  German, 
Anna  happily  understood  little,  except  that  she  had 
produced  her  tones  in  the  old-time  manner,  the 
atrocity  of  which  Herr  Pannier  had  endeavored  to 
beat  into  her  head.  She  began  again,  several  times, 
but  with  no  better  success. 

"Dumm,  dumm,"  he  groaned.  "How  long  haf 
you  vorked  to-day,  hein?" 

"An  hour,"  she  said  meekly. 

"Und  yesterday?" 

"Two — no,  I  didn't  practise  at  all.  I  was  out  in 
the  country." 

"Just  so.  You  can  go  home  now.  We  can  do 
noddings  to-day.  You  are  vorse  to-day  als  ever. 
You  t'ink  you  better  try  to  go  on  vith  me?" 

"Why yes,  I  think  so.     Why  not?" 

"Oh,  it  is  maybe  losing  your  time — und  mine.  I 
cannot  make  you  sing.  Dese  American  wo  ices!  Und 
efery  one  at  once  wanting  in  public  to  appear!  Ach, 
Himmel!" 

And  he  began  to  cry,  from  simple  nervous  irrita 
tion.  Anna,  aghast,  put  up  her  music  and  left  hur 
riedly.  Her  last  sight  of  Herr  Pannier  showed  him 
bent  over  the  centre-table,  his  face  buried  on  a  pile 
of  papers  and  one  hand  clutching  the  chenille  cover 
frenziedly.  She  laughed  as  she  went  down  the  dingy 

331 


THE  FORERUNNER 

stairs,  but  resolved  to  work  hard — to-morrow.  She 
knew  that  she  could  do  nothing  that  day. 

The  Indian  summer  was  over.  The  day  had 
dawned  cold  and  cloudy,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  it  began  to  rain  heavily.  Anna,  dressed 
for  Purcell,  was  contemplating  her  open  fire,  when 
with  a  knock  at  the  door  Flora  O'Beirne  appeared. 
Anna  had  not  seen  her  for  a  fortnight. 

"How  cosy  you  look!  No,  thanks,  I  won't  take  off 
my  coat,  for  I've  only  a  few  moments.  I've  come  to 
say  good-by — we're  off  to-morrow,"  announced  Flora. 

"Really?  That  means  you've  done  what  you 
wanted  to  do  here,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  partly.  But  we  have  to  go  back  now,  any 
way.  Michael's  affairs  simply  make  it  necessary 
that  he  should  be  in  Sonora  for  the  next  two  months. 
Then  we  may  have  another  siege  of  it  here.  But 
again  I  may  not  see  you  for  years — or  it  may  be  for 
ever,  as  the  song  says." 

"I'm  sorry I  shall  feel  quite  deserted,"  said 

Anna  mendaciously.  "But  if  you  do  come  back, 
you'll  probably  find  me  here.  It's  really  very  nice 
indeed,  and  I'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you." 

"Oh,  not  a  bit  of  it.  And  how  is  Daniel?  Does 
he  find  time  to  write  much?" 

"Oh,  quite  often." 

"And  he  is  busy  with  that  road,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  very  busy." 

"Well,  tell  him  I  expect  him  to  give  me  a  pass  on 
it  when  it's  done,  and  maybe  Michael  can  reciprocate 
some  day.  Is  he  well?" 

"Oh,  yeSj  I  think  so,  quite  well." 

"I  thought  he  was  looking  badly  when  he  left.  He 
332 


THE  FORERUNNER 

don't  get  much  comfort  out  there,  I  suppose,  poor 
fellow."  v 

Anna  colored  faintly.  "He  writes  that  he's  very 
comfortable,"  she  said  coldly. 

"Oh,  yes,  he'd  make  the  best  of  it,  of  course.  That's 
like  him — he  isn't  one  to  complain.  He's  just  the 
sort  that  needs  looking  after.  But  perhaps  there's 
some  woman  out  there  that  does  look  after  him  a  bit, 
do  you  think  so?  He's  the  kind  that  women  like  to 
fuss  over,  too." 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  He  used  to  write  about 
a  Mrs.  Manlove,  but  she's  up  at  Mallory." 

"Well,  I  hope  there's  someone.  It  did  seem  to  me 
he  was  a  man  to  have  a  woman  about  him.  How 
d'ye  get  on  with  the  singing?" 

With  two  or  three  perfunctory  remarks,  Flora 
brought  her  visit  to  a  close.  She  left  Anna  indignant, 
but  not  with  the  "bee  in  her  bonnet"  that  she  had 
meant  to  put  there.  Anna  had  not  been  roused  to 
jealousy  of  Dan — it  needed  for  that  some  tangible  fact 
— but  only  to  a  deeper  dislike  of  meddling  Mrs. 
O'Beirne. 

It  was  after  four  now,  and  she  sat  watching  the 
fire,  half-hypnotized  by  its  glow — waiting,  waiting. 
As  the  time  crept  past  five  she  became  restless;  got 
up  and  watched  the  rain  pouring  down  into  the  yards 
of  the  old  houses,  washing  the  last  leaves  from  tree 
and  vines.  Then  she  rearranged  the  few  books  on 
her  table  and  rang  to  have  the  fire  made  up.  When 
the  hands  of  her  watch  showed  nearly  six  she  sat  tense 
with  expectation  in  her  chair.  Twice  the  door-bell 
rang  and  she  waited  with  fast-beating  heart  for  the 
knock  at  her  door.  But  none  came.  She  went  down 

333 


THE  FORERUNNER 

late  to  dinner;  could  not  eat,  and  was  back  in  her 
room  at  half-past  seven.  An  hour  later  she  was  on 
the  verge  of  tears. 

All  the  warm  sweetness  of  her  dream  was  gone  now, 
as  completely  as  the  dream  of  summer  had  vanished 
under  the  pelting  rain.  All  her  prospect  was  gray 
and  dismal. 

The  old  feeling  that  her  hold  on  Purcell  was  only 
tentative  came  back  with  crushing  force.  Her  jeal 
ousy  of  the  unknown  in  his  life,  sometimes  dormant, 
but  always  there,  awoke  in  full  strength.  Perhaps 
he  was  tired  of  her,  and  would  take  this  excuse  to  for 
sake  her!  But  no,  that  could  not  be.  His  anger 
showed  that  he  cared  something.  But  perhaps  he 
would  cherish  that  anger — pride  might  prevent  him 
from  coming  back,  at  least  for  some  time.  Perhaps 
he  was  waiting  for  some  word  from  her. 

And  she  sat  down  to  write  to  him,  with  only  the 
vaguest  idea  of  what  she  meant  to  say,  but  under  the 
imperious  necessity  of  calling  him  back.  She  wrote 
"Dear  Mr.  Purcell,"  and  halted — for  after  the  formal 
ity  of  that  disused  address  how  was  she  to  write  to 
him  as  she  felt  and  as  she  wished  to  write?  She  took 
another  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote  tremulously,  "Dear 
Nicholas."  And  the  sight  of  the  words  sent  the  color 
flaming  to  her  cheeks,  intoxicated  her.  She  bent 
down  and  kissed  the  paper,  then  started  up.  The 
bell  had  rung  again.  She  caught  up  the  two  sheets 
of  paper,  tore  them  in  half,  and,  as  the  knock  sounded 
at  her  door,  dropped  them  into  the  fire.  It  was  a 
moment  before  she  could  command  her  voice  to  say 
"Come  in."  The  waitress  opened  the  door  and  an 
nounced  "Mr.  Purcell." 

334 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Anna  smiled  at  him  as  he  entered,  with  joy,  the 
keenest  she  had  ever  been  conscious  of,  shining  in  her 
face.  And  there  was  confession,  too,  in  Nicholas's 
look.  He  had  meant  not  to  come  that  night,  but  a 
sudden  impulse  had  swept  away  his  reasons. 


335 


XIII. 

A  ND  yet,  though  a  certain  surrender  was  involved 
•^*"  in  this,  Nicholas  had  by  no  means  abdicated. 
Unmistakably  he  kept  the  advantage  which,  as  be 
tween  Anna  and  himself,  he  would  always  keep.  The 
great  concession  she  might  be  able  to  get  from  him — 
he  might  need  her,  want  her  near  him.  But  she  would 
have  to  be  satisfied  with  that.  She  needed  him  more 
than  he  needed  her.  And  the  general  business  of 
concession  would  be  hers. 

She  did  not  dare,  now,  to  take  his  return  as  a  tri 
umph.  She  pushed  a  chair  up  to  the  fire  for  him — 
though  it  had  hitherto  been  a  point  of  pride  with  her 
to  be  waited  on  by  the  admiring  male — and  said 
timidly, 

"It's  a  very  bad  night,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  raining  rather." 

And  Nicholas  wheeled  up  another  plush  chair  for 
her.  He  had  left  his  wet  rain-coat,  hat  and  overshoes 
in  the  hall,  but  it  was  evident  that  he  had  walked, 
and  as  usual  had  not  bothered  himself  with  an  um 
brella.  The  freshness  and  chill  of  the  rain  hung  about 
him.  His  hair  looked  damp,  and  the  long  straight 
lock  clung  dankly  to  his  forehead,  till  he  brushed  it 
back  with  his  handkerchief.  He  was  in  evening 
dress,  and  Anna  noticed  that  he  had  fastened  his  tie 
down  with  a  pin,  which  showed  plainly. 

"Is  it  too  hot  in  here  for  you?  Perhaps  it  seems 
336 


THE  FORERUNNER 

so,  coming  in  from  outside?"  Anna  asked  anxiously 
as  he  did  not  sit  down. 

"Oh,  no,  it's  very  comfortable.  Have  you  been 
reading  this?"  He  picked  up  the  volume  of  Maeter 
linck  from  the  table  and  flicked  the  leaves  over  ab 
sently. 

"Yes,  a  little — only  a  few  pages." 

"You  weren't  interested  then?" 

"Oh,  yes,  but  it  is  hard  to  read — especially  when 
one  is  busy.  It's  hard  to  keep  your  mind  fixed  on 
that  sort  of  thing.  It's  so  vague." 

"Tell  me  what  you've  been  busy  about,  then." 
And  he  consented  to  sit  down  near  her,  still  with  a 
slight  aloofness  of  manner,  which  Anna  felt  keenly. 
But  she  noticed  also  that  he  somehow  looked  younger, 
more  alive,  even  a  little  excited.  There  was  a  sug 
gestion  of  storm  and  stress  about  him. 

"Oh,  nothing  much — thinking  mostly,"  she  said 
quickly.  "I  had  a  quarrel  with  Herr  Pannier  because 
I  couldn't  attend  to  my  lesson.  I  couldn't  think  of 

anything  to-day  but what  happened  last  night. 

I  thought  perhaps  I  shouldn't  see  you  again."    And 
she  smiled  tremulously. 

"Why  did  you  think  that?" 

"Oh,  because — you  went  away  angry.  And  you 
have  so  many  interests — you  know  so  many  more  in 
teresting  people  than  I  am Why  should  you 

bother  to  come?" 

"You're  much  mistaken.  I  haven't  many  real 
interests — I  don't  know  anybody  who  interests  me 
more  than  you  do." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  that."  She  blushed  and 
looked  startled. 

337 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Certainly  I  mean  it.  You  interest  me — enor 
mously.  And  for  that  reason  I  wish  we  could  be  frank 
— that  you  could  be.  If  we  are  to  see  much  of  one 
another  you  must  be.  How  can  there  be  any  friend 
ship  or  intimacy  without  that?" 

"But — do  you  mean  I'm  to  tell  you  everything? 
But  how  can  I?" 

"Why  not?  I  want  to  know  all  about  you.  You 
know  all  about  me — all  the  essentials." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't!  And  besides  it's  different.  You 
can  tell  all  your  own  affairs,  if  you  like — there's  noth 
ing  to  prevent.  But  you  can't  always  tell — some 
body  else's  affairs.  I've  never  told  anybody.  I 
don't  think  I  ought  to.  Can't  we  be  friends  without 
that?"  she  pleaded.  "I  don't  really  know  much 
about  you,  either." 

"But  I'll  tell  you  anything  you  want  to  know,  that's 
the  difference.  I  have  no  secrets.  How  queer  you 
are,  Anna!  I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  a  woman  be 
fore  who  minded  talking  about  her  husband — for  I 
suppose  that's  what  you  mean.  It's  your  Western 
bringing  up,  I  daresay — it  isn't  considered  proper 
out  there?" 

"No,  it  isn't — and  I  don't  think  it  is  proper,"  and 
Anna  lifted  her  chin,  decidedly  piqued. 

"It  isn't  proper  to  talk  about  your  individual  ex 
periences,  simply  because  another  person  is  mixed 
up  in  them  to  whom  you  happen  to  be  married!" 
Nicholas  laughed  and  got  up  to  walk  about  the  room 
restlessly.  "You  are  a  perfect  little  bourgeoise,  with 
your  worry  about  propriety.  No  one  will  know  it 
anyhow  except  us  two — so  if  it  is  public  opinion  you 

fear " 

338 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"It  isn't  public  opinion." 

"Do  you  think  it  really  wrong,  then,  irrespective 
of  who  knows  about  it,  to  tal1:  to  me  about  your  life, 
your  real  feelings,  your — husband,  not  to  take  that 
august  name  in  vain?" 

Anna  was  silent,  staring  miserably  at  the  fire. 
Nicholas's  roughness  hurt  her  deeply,  and  she  felt 
they  were  about  to  quarrel  again  and  that  she  could 
not  help  it. 

"In  other  words,  you're  not  an  individual  at  all, 
but  a  Married  Woman."  His  tone  was  biting — he 
hurled  this  epithet  at  her  contemptuously.  "A  per 
sonality  manque." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  but  very  likely  I 
am,"  said  Anna  finally.  "At  least  I  think  it  would 
be  wrong.  Because,  if  you  must  know  it,  we  have 
— we  don't  agree  very  well.  We  have  quarrelled. 
And  it  wouldn't  be  fair  in  me  to  complain  of  him  or 
— to  talk  about  him.  It  would  be  mean,  and  you 
know  it.  I  can't  help  it  if  all  the  other  women  you 
know  do  it.  And  if  we  really  can't  be  friends  without 

that — why  then "  But  she  couldn't  say  it;  her 

voice  died  away. 

"Confess  you've  been  reading  the  essay  on  Silence," 
Nicholas  said  laughing,  and  he  came  back  and  sat 
down  by  her,  with  the  book  in  his  hand.  He  turned 
over  the  pages  and  here  and  there  read  aloud  a  par 
agraph,  looking  very  much  at  ease.  Anna  watched 
him,  bewildered  by  this  sudden  clearing  of  the  air; 
not  listening  to  the  philosopher's  cool  and  lulling  sen 
tences,  but  only  to  the  lazy  voice  of  Nicholas,  which 
was  like  a  half-satirical,  if  friendly  comment  on  what 
he  read.  She  had  come  now  to  think  him  handsome. 

339 


THE  FORERUNNER 

His  face,  not  distinguished  otherwise  than  by  intel 
ligence  and  character,  seemed  to  her  not  only  fascinat 
ing,  but  good  and  sure,  and  so  altogether  adorable. 
Yet  she  did  not  feel  that  she  understood  him. 

Presently  he  dropped  the  book  and  again  took  up 
the  subject  of  their  talk. 

"I  liked  your  husband,"  he  said  coolly.  "Espe 
cially  the  last  time  I  saw  him  here.  I  should  like  to 
see  more  of  him.  I  don't  know  or  care  anything 
about  business,  and  what  I  saw  of  him  in  his  business 
aspect  didn't  particularly  interest  me.  But  outside 
that  I  should  think  he  must  be  a  very  good  fellow, 
with  a  decided  temperament.  Isn't  it  so?" 

"Very  likely,"  said  Anna  stiffly.  "Only  it  would 
be  hard  to  see  him  outside  of  business.  That's  all  he 
does." 

"Wonderful!  Rather  terrible,  too.  I  can't  imag 
ine  putting  one's  temperament  into  business.  That's 
not  what  it's  meant  for,  I'm  sure.  And  yet  I  sup 
pose  that's  what  men  do  who  make  the  big  fortunes. 
Devin  means  to  make  a  fortune,  doesn't  he?" 

"Yes,  he  expects  to,"  Anna  said,  looking  very 
sulky,  downcast  and  handsome.  It  angered  her  to 
hear  Nicholas  talk  impersonally  about  something  so 
personal  to  her,  if  not  to  them  both. 

"And  do  you  think  he  will?" 

"I?  I  don't  know  anything  about  business,  either. 
But  if  he  doesn't  his  life  will  be  a  failure,  for  that's 
all  he  lives  for." 

"Oh,  that's  pathetic.  Surely  you  don't  mean  it, 
though.  I  should  think  he  was  a  very  human  per 
son,  and  very  fond  of  you." 

Anna  flamed  up  at  this. 
340 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I  don't  know  why  you  say  such  things!"  she  cried. 
"I  told  you  I  didn't  want  to  talk  about  it.  You  are 
just  trying  to  torment  me " 

"  No,  dear  Anna — only  I  want  to  know  whether 
you  love  him." 

Nicholas,  looking  very  boyish  with  the  sudden 
gleam  of  excitement  in  his  eyes,  leaned  forward  and 
took  her  hands. 

And  she,  already  breathless  and  almost  weeping, 
now  surprised  by  his  touch  and  nearness,  was  swept 
completely  out  of  herself.  Submerged  in  the  swell 
of  her  first  great  irresistible  emotion,  she  felt  herself 
going — she  was  only  able  to  say,  "I  love  you." 

"I  hoped  so,"  Nicholas  said  quietly. 

He  felt  at  least  that  he  had  known  it,  and  that  he 
could  not  have  rested  without  making  her  say  it.  But 
the  ecstasy  of  the  moment  was  all  hers.  It  possessed 
her,  she  was  dizzy  with  it.  The  vastness  of  the  thing 
she  had  done,  the  emotion,  so  infinitely  beyond  her 
experience,  that  had  forced  her  to  do  it,  overwhelmed 
her.  She  sat  looking  at  him  solemnly,  unconscious 
now  whether  he  held  her  hands  or  not,  unconscious 
of  herself  for  the  first  time  since  her  childhood. 

"It's  true,  I  do,"  she  went  on  in  hushed  tones. 
"But  I  don't  say  it  to  claim  anything  from  you.  I 
know  you  don't  care  for  me  as  I  do  for  you — you 
couldn't.  I'm  not — interesting  enough.  I  couldn't 
have  all  of  your  life  even  if  you  did  care  for  me.  But 
you  could  have  all  of  mine,  if  it  had  come  about  that 
way.  But  I  know,  I  know  it  can't  be.  I  don't  ex 
pect  anything  at  all.  I  know  I  shall  lose  you,  I  can't 
hope  for  anything  else — but  I'm  glad  I  love  you." 

"And  I'm  glad,"  murmured  Nicholas. 
341 


THE  FORERUNNER 

He  bent  to  kiss  her  fingers,  and  she,  with  a  gesture 
of  passionate  tenderness,  laid  her  left  hand  on  his 
head.  And  Nicholas  noticed  again  as  he  kissed  her 
fingers,  their  plebeian  shape,  which  all  her  careful 
keeping  could  not  dissemble.  Then  against  this  folly 
of  taste  what  was  deeper  in  him  rose  up  in  rebellion; 
and  with  the  impetus  of  the  instant's  conflict  he  cried, 
"That's  what  I  care  for  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world — that  you  should  love  me!  It's  worth 
anything  in  the  world,  dear  Anna!" 

Her  heavy  eyelids,  quivering  with  delight,  closed 
and  opened  slowly,  showing  the  gathering  tears. 

"Oh,  I  would  have  loved  you,"  she  sighed.  "I 
would  have  taken  care  of  you.  I  would  learn  every 
thing  you  liked,  and  anything,  anything  in  the  world 
I  could  do — and  I  should  have  been  so  happy " 

"Then  why  shouldn't  we  be  happy?"  Nicholas 
asked,  really  dazzled  now  by  her  beauty,  alive  and 
alight  as  he  had  never  seen  it.  "I  don't  mean  to  lose 
you,  depend  on  that." 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  getting  up  and  moving  away 
from  him.  "How  could  it  be  so?  You  must  see,  it 
can't  be.  You  have  your  own  life,  different  from 
mine,  you  couldn't  be  bound  to  me — and  so  we  must 
be  apart — but  I  shall  always,  always  love  you." 

And  still  in  her  mood  of  exaltation  she  was  ready 
to  devote  herself  absolutely,  to  renounce  him.  She 
was  even  eager  at  the  moment  to  do  it,  for  so  the 
vague  and  bright  splendor  of  the  vision  was  untouched 
by  a  material  shadow.  So  her  great  avowal  stood 
for  what  it  was — a  simple,  complete  gift.  At  the 
moment  she  felt  that  she  could  live  the  rest  of  her  life 
and  need  no  other  happiness. 

342 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"You  could  be  everything  to  me — everything  that 
really  counts,"  said  Nicholas,  coming  toward  her. 

She  still  retreated,  looking  at  him  with  misty  eyes, 
and  shaking  her  head.  "No,  no — it's  impossible — 
I  can't  believe  it!"  she  said  vehemently.  And  laying 
her  arms  along  the  top  of  the  false  book-case,  she  put 
her  head  down,  hid  her  face. 

Nicholas  followed,  more  and  more  determined. 
Her  emotion  moved  him  deeply;  he  felt  gratitude, 
tenderness  for  her,  and  a  strong  wish  to  appropriate 
her.  Moreover,  the  necessity  for  overcoming  evident 
obstacles  stimulated  him,  helped  to  make  him  sure 
of  himself  by  rousing  his  will.  And  a  certain  inward 
conflict,  of  which  in  face  of  any  emotional  situation 
he  was  always  conscious,  gave  an  added  impulse  to 
action.  In  order  to  get  any  satisfaction  that  his  sim 
pler  self  demanded  he  had  always  to  crush  down  a 
certain  protest,  a  depreciating  comment,  persistent 
questions;  and  this  gave  to  the  expression  of  his  ele 
mental  side  a  force,  at  times  a  violence,  that  was  really 
not  in  his  character. 

He  was  rough  because  he  had  to  carry  his  point, 
not  only  against  circumstances,  but  against  himself. 
And  at  this  moment  he  was  elated,  too,  because  he 
was  facing  the  first  serious  business  of  his  life,  because 
he  was  going  boldly  into  an  affair  of  which  he  could 
not  see  the  end — which,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
would  very  likely  have  no  end — which  would  cer 
tainly  involve  penalties  of  care  and  responsibility 
that  he  had  hitherto  been  free  from.  In  spite  of  his 
many  relations  with  women,  Nicholas  was  more  in 
experienced  than  Anna  herself.  He  had  never  come 
up  sharply  against  any  important  angle  of  life,  until 

343 


THE  FORERUNNER 

how.  And  now  the  sudden  shock  of  it,  the  feeling 
that  here  was  something  gravely  significant  which 
was  not  to  be  got  out  of,  immensely  exhilarated 
him.  It  was  the  feeling  of  life  itself  that  gave  to  his 
look,  his  manner,  and  voice  an  extra  energy,  a  novel 
brilliance. 

He  put  his  arm  about  Anna,  lifted  her  bowed  head, 
and  said  with  authority,  "Come — sit  down  here,  and 
listen." 

She  acquiesced,  drew  away  from  him  quickly,  took 
the  chair  he  placed  for  her,  and  sat  erect,  with  her 
hands  folded  and  her  eyelids  drooping,  as  though 
half -en  tranced.  Nicholas  seated  himself,  facing  her 
squarely,  bent  forward  and  looked  earnestly  at  her. 

"We  must  settle  now  what  is  to  be  done/'  he  said 
firmly. 

"Oh,"  murmured  Anna,  lifting  her  shining  eyes, 
startled  in  the  midst  of  her  dream,  and  shrinking, 
with  a  protesting  gesture.  "Don't — don't  say  any 
thing,  just  now." 

But  Nicholas,  bent  on  seizing  the  practical  situa 
tion,  difficult  as  it  was,  insisted. 

"We  must,  dear  Anna,  if  you  feel  as  I  do."  And 
he  went  on  rapidly,  overpowered  by  the  impulse  to 
commit  himself,  to  bind  himself:  "I  want  you,  I  want 
to  live  with  you,  now  and  always.  And  the  only 
question  is,  if  you  care  for  me  in  that  way — whether 
you  would  marry  me,  if  you  were  free." 

"You  know  I  do,"  she  said,  with  a  passionate, 
brooding  look.  "But  don't — don't  talk  about  any 
thing  else  now.  I  am  so  happy.  I  never  imagined 
anyone  could  be  so  happy.  I  don't  want  to  think 
of  anything  but  that.  It  is  so  wonderful." 

344 


THE   FORERUNNER 

And  she  folded  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  closed  slowly 
in  a  rapturous  revery  and  opened  again  upon  him 
full  of  the  dream  of  love.  But  Nicholas,  though  he 
was  half-enchanted,  was  not  happy.  He  could  not 
be  anything  but  restless  in  face  of  the  difficulties  in 
his  way.  Ruthlessly  he  wanted  her  to  feel  them  too. 
He  wanted  some  immediate  practical  plan,  some 
definite  settlement,  and  he  said  as  much,  brusquely. 

Then  Anna  in  sudden  distress  rose  and  moved  away 
from  him  again,  went  to  the  window  and  stood  with 
her  back  to  him,  silently  crying. 

"Anna!  What  is  it,  what  have  I  said?  Don't  take 
it  that  way,  for  heaven's  sake.  I  must  be  a  clumsy 
brute " 

"Oh,  why  do  you  make  me  think  of — everything 
now!"  she  protested.  "How  did  you  expect  me  to 
take  it?  Everything — everything  else  is  miserable, 
and  when  you  make  me  think,  I'm  miserable  too — 
perfectly  wretched!"  and  she  sobbed  more  violently 
as  Nicholas  tried  to  quiet  her. 

"I  know  it's  a  bad  situation,"  he  argued,  "but  just 
for  that  reason  we  ought  to  face  it  and  get  out  of  it 
as  soon  as  possible." 

"It  isn't  so  easy  to  get  out  of  it." 

"No,  but  it's  quite  possible.  And  it  must  be  done. 
You  agree  with  me  there,  don't  you?  There  must  be 
a  divorce,  and  then  we  shall  be  married." 

At  this  brutal  masculine  rending  of  the  shimmering 
veil  that  had  hidden  for  a  time  the  harsh  realities  of 
the  "situation,"  Anna  became  quiet  and  sombre. 

"You  agree  with  me  there,  don't  you?"  said  Nicho 
las  more  gently. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured. 
345 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"It's  the  only  way  out — the  best  way,  for  everyone 
concerned — for  Devin  too." 

Anna  colored,  and  turned  her  head  away,  looking 
out  into  the  black  night  where  the  rain  was  now  pour 
ing  down  in  torrents. 

"Better  for  him,  for  you  don't  care  for  him,  and 
he  may  find  someone  who  will." 

"Yes — he  may/'  she  said  dully. 

"Then  you  do  agree  with  me  as  to  what  must  be 
done." 

"I  suppose  so." 

She  spoke  with  such  evident  constraint  and  feeling 
as  to  surprise  Nicholas.  He  had  not  suspected  her  of 
sentiment,  nor  of  feeling,  outside  certain  limits.  He 
recognized  now  and  respected  something  new  in  her. 

This  new  power  of  feeling  came  from  the  fact  that 
Anna  loved  him,  and  was  stirred  to  whatever  depth 
she  had;  but  now  she  was  thinking  of  Dan. 

"You  see,  he  is  very  fond  of  me,"  she  said  in  the 
same  dry  tone.  "As  fond  of  me  as  he  can  be  of  any 
one.  I  don't  believe  he  cares  at  all  for  anybody  else 
in  the  world." 

"I  know,"  murmured  Nicholas.  And  after  a  si 
lence  he  added  as  though  to  himself,  "Life  is  sad.  I 
pity  everybody — Devin,  you — the  whole  world." 

But  at  this  Anna  turned  suddenly  and  threw  her 
self  on  his  breast. 

"Don't  let  it  be  sad— don't  pity  me— I  can't  bear 
it!  I  won't  have  you  speak  so!  I  am  young,  and  I 
want  to  be  happy — I  will  be!  And  we  can  be  happy 
together,  for  I  love  you — I  love  you  more  than  all  the 
world!  And  you  will  love  me  a  little,  won't  you?" 

And  she  clung  to  him  all  the  closer,  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  not  said  he  loved  her. 

346 


XIV. 

HHHE  day  after  Christmas — a  gray  day,  which  would 
-*~  have  been  very  cold  if  it  had  not  been  so  quiet — 
Manlove  was  on  the  station  platform  at  Ralston  to 
meet  the  two-o'clock  train,  and  Dan,  who  was  return 
ing  after  a  week's  stay  in  Cheyenne.  Dan  had  tele 
graphed,  asking  Manlove  to  meet  him,  if  any  business 
should  take  him  to  Ralston  that  day.  But  a  dozen 
indifferent  passengers  had  descended,  the  signal  for 
departure  had  been  given,  the  train  began  to  pull  out 
slowly;  and  Manlove  was  turning  away,  when  he 
saw  Dan  on  the  platform  of  the  last  car — the  private 
car  of  the  president  of  the  road.  Dan  dropped  off 
as  the  car  slid  by,  and  greeted  Manlove  briefly.  He 
was  wrapped  in  his  heavy  mountain-coat,  with  the 
collar  turned  up  about  his  ears. 

"Got  anything  to  do  here?"  he  asked.     "If  not, 
let's  get  that  stage." 

"All  right,  I'm  through  my  business." 
Manlove  gathered  up  a  number  of  parcels,  and  they 
walked  down  the  main  street  to  the  hotel,  from  which 
the  stage  started  daily  at  half-past  two.  It  was 
standing  now  in  front  of  the  hotel — a  big  four-horse 
vehicle,  rather  old  and  rusty,  but  powerfully  built. 
There  were  already  three  passengers  in  it,  and  the 
usual  group  of  bystanders  hung  about  to  see  the  start. 
Dan  had  nodded  to  several  men  during  the  short 
walk,  and  now  as  he  was  about  to  get  into  the 

347 


THE   FORERUNNER 

stage  he  was  stopped  by  the  editor  of  the  local  after 
noon  paper,  who  happened  to  be  passing. 

"Glad  to  see  you  back,  Devin!  Didn't  know  but 
you'd  gone  East  with  your  millionnaire  friend.  Have 
you  seen  the  Republican  yet?  Well,  I'll  get  you  a 
copy — it  gives  you  a  good  send-off,  editorially,  and 
in  fact  the  whole  paper  I  think  will  interest  you.  It's 
unusually  newsy.  Hi,  boy!"  And  the  editor  put 
two  fingers  to  his  mouth  and  whistled  shrilly.  A 
prosperous-looking  urchin  on  the  corner,  who  was 
apparently  much  more  interested  in  the  proceedings 
of  a  Salvation  Army  band  than  in  selling  his  papers, 
obeyed  the  call.  The  editor,  who  was  a  large  man 
with  an  oratorical  mouth,  frowned  at  him. 

"Boy,  you'd  better  look  alive  if  you  want  to  do 
business  with  the  Republican,"  he  said  sternly,  hand 
ing  over  a  nickel,  which  was  the  price  of  the  paper- 
pennies  not  having  made  their  appearance  as  yet  in 
Ralston.  Then  he  unfolded  the  four-page  sheet, 
still  damp  and  sticky  from  the  press,  and  re-folded  it 
with  the  editorial  page  outside.  "There  you  are," 
he  said  complacently,  pointing  to  the  main  editorial, 
which  was  entitled  "The  Iron  Horse."  "You'll  find 
there  a  suggestion  that  may  interest  you — a  sug 
gestion,  sir,  that  your  services  to  this  community  are 
worth  a  public  or  political  reward."  The  editor 
looked  round  importantly  at  the  by-standers,  who  had 
presumably  already  read  the  editorial. 

Dan  smiled  perfunctorily.  "All  right,  thank  you, 
Wharton — I'll  read  it  going  over,"  he  said.  "I  be 
lieve  I'll  get  in  now  out  of  this  wind."  And  he  shiv 
ered  in  his  heavy  coat. 

"But,  man,  there's  no  wind!  You've  got  a  chill, 
348 


THE   FORERUNNER 

that's  what's  the  matter.  You've  got  a  bad  cold. 
Come  along  in  and  have  a  nip  of  whiskey  before  you 
start — it'll  brace  you  up  for  the  ride." 

"I  believe  I  will — I  have  got  a  chill,  I  guess,"  Dan 
said  wearily. 

Manlove  was  asked  to  join  but  declined,  and  the 
editor  led  the  way  into  the  hotel  bar  and  ordered  two 
whiskeys,  for  which  he  paid,  throwing  down  a  gold- 
piece  with  a  large  gesture.  Dan  was  not  a  frequenter 
of  bars,  but  the  editor  was,  and  he  talked  familiarly, 
while  they  were  despatching  the  drinks,  to  the  bar 
keeper  (who  was  a  son-in-law  of  the  hotel-keeper, 
who  kept  a  standing  advertisement  and  got  many 
free  puffs  in  the  Republican)  and  to  the  other  citizens 
in  the  bar.  Dan  was  unusually  silent,  and  the  editor 
referred  explanatorily  to  his  cold,  and  strongly  recom 
mended  a  mustard-bath  and  four  fingers  of  whiskey 
at  the  journey's  end. 

The  place  was  warm,  and  the  arm-chairs  near  the 
stove  looked  inviting  to  Dan,  who  threw  back  his 
coat  and  began  to  feel  how  tired  he  was.  But  when 
the  blast  of  a  horn  without  heralded  the  departure 
of  the  stage,  he  pulled  himself  together,  conscious 
of  work  to  be  done,  and  went  out.  The  editor  bade 
him  farewell  with  a  hearty  hand-shake. 

"Look  in  when  you  come  to  town — and  let  me 
know  what  you  think  of  the  editorial,"  he  called  out 
as  the  stage  started. 

Dan  and  Manlove  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the 
other  passengers  bound  for  River  City,  but  it  was  be 
coming  difficult  for  Dan  to  speak  at  all.  He  breathed 
with  difficulty;  and  one  hand,  thrust  into  the  breast 
of  his  shaggy  coat,  clutched  at  his  chest. 

349 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  you  haven't  got  rid  of  that  cold 
yet/'  said  Manlove.  "In  fact  it  seems  worse  than 
when  you  left." 

"Doctor  down  there  said  it  was  bronchitis,  but  I 
guess  he  didn't  know  much.  Just  a  plain,  ordinary 
cold.  He  told  me  to  stay  in  the  house  for  a  week." 

"Well,  you'd  better  do  it.  You  don't  want  to  be 
laid  up  now." 

"No.  Don't  want  to  stay  in  the  house,  either. 
I'll  get  out  to-morrow  and  hustle  Banks  and  those 
Yon  Yonsons  a  little.  Must  have  ten  miles  done 

before "  The  pain  in  his  chest  interrupted  him; 

he  sank  back  in  his  corner  of  the  seat  with  an  irri 
tated  groan.  "Can't  talk  much  just  now — it  starts 
this  blamed  thing  up." 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  was  silent  for  some  time, 
breathing  heavily.  Manlove  looked  at  him  with 
concern.  In  all  his  acquaintance  with  Dan  he  had 
never  seen  him  ill,  or  known  him  to  admit  feeling 
pain  or  physical  discomfort.  He  was  silent,  too, 
though  there  were  many  things  he  wanted  to  talk 
over  with  Dan,  whom  it  was  rather  necessary  nowa 
days  to  catch  on  the  fly.  Dan  had  been  incessantly 
on  the  move  ever  since  his  return  from  the  East  in 
October.  After  the  beginning  of  \vork  on  the  smel 
ter  his  active  interests  had  broadened  out  beyond 
Grandview  and  the  mines,  and  his  time  had  largely 
been  given  to  the  railroad  project.  For  six  weeks 
he  had  been  constantly  with  Josiah  Purcell,  who  had 
just  gone  East,  after  a  final  conference  with  the  Union 
Pacific  officials;  at  which  the  traffic  agreement  had 
been  signed  and  also  a  contract  by  which  the  main 
road  was  to  haul  material  at  a  low  rate,  for  the 

350 


THE  FORERUNNER 

branch.  And  Dan's  time  was  further  occupied 
by  his  growing  correspondence,  interviews  with  the 
various  contractors,  and  all  the  infinite  details  that 
must  be  settled  before  actual  construction  could  be 
gin.  Manlove  therefore  felt  that  Dan  had  outgrown 
their  common  interests,  though  he  was  still  of  course 
vitally  concerned  in  the  progress  of  the  mining  in 
dustries.  It  was  difficult  now  for  Manlove  to  get 
much  of  his  partner's  time  or  attention.  He  had 
expected  that  during  the  stage-ride  of  five  hours 
they  could  settle  some  business  matters  that  were 
important  to  him,  and  the  same  idea  had  been  in 
dicated  in  Dan's  telegram.  But  for  the  first  time  in 
their  relations  Dan  was  obviously  unfit  for  business. 
He  had  fastened  down  the  leather  curtain  on  his 
side  of  the  stage,  and  leaned  back  in  his  corner  ap 
parently  dozing,  but  every  few  minutes  roused  by 
a  jolt  as  the  heavy  coach  rolled  over  a  stone  or  swung 
ponderously  round  a  bend  in  the  road.  After  half 
an  hour  or  so  he  sat  up  with  a  sigh,  pushed  back  the 
curtain  and  looked  out.  The  road  now  ran  close  to 
the  river,  whose  steely  gray  current  was  visible  be 
tween  and  beyond  the  straggling  willows  on  its  bank. 
It  was  a  broad  and  rapid  stream,  but  smoothly  flow 
ing.  On  a  bright  day  it  had  its  own  beauty  of  blue 
color  and  flashing  ripples;  but  now  it  answered  to 
the  sombre  gray  of  the  sky.  Beyond  it  the  farming 
lands  of  the  valley  rose  in  a  gradual  swell  to  the 
foot-hills  of  a  great  range  of  mountains,  fir-clad 
half-way  up,  above  that  bare,  and  crowned  with 
snow.  And  on  the  right  side  of  the  river — along 
which  the  stage-road  ran — there  was  a  narrower  strip 
of  valley,  then  more  foot-hills,  more  mountains. 

351 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Down  the  valley,  from  the  canyon  at  its  head,  poured 
the  river;  and  up  it  went  the  stage,  bowling  along  be 
hind  its  powerful  team  at  seven  miles  an  hour. 

Dan  moved  suddenly  to  the  other  side  of  the  stage. 
"We  ought  to  be  getting  sight  of  those  fellows  pretty 
soon/'  he  murmured. 

And  in  fact  over  a  little  rise  just  ahead  came  into 
view  a  long  stretch  of  newly-graded  road-bed,  nearly 
parallel  to  the  stage-road,  which  a  gang  of  Swedish 
laborers  was  continuing  toward  Ralston.  As  the 
coach  swept  past  the  workmen,  all  its  occupants 
leaned  out  to  look,  with  varying  degrees  of  interest 
and  eagerness.  Manlove,  leaning  over  Dan's  shoul 
der,  studied  the  strip  of  light-brown  earth  reeling 
past  them,  with  a  naive  wonder.  Three  miles  of  the 
track  on  this  end  were  already  graded.  And  Man- 
love  had  secretly  disbelieved,  all  along,  in  the  pos 
sibility  of  the  road's  being  built.  His  honest,  rosy 
face  now  wore  a  characteristic  expression  of  puzzled, 
rather  helpless  contemplation.  He  was  a  perfectly 
well-meaning,  hard-working  man,  with  an  inability, 
which  he  ruefully  recognized  himself,  to  see  very  far 
before  his  nose. 

"They're  doing  pretty  well,  I  should  think?"  he 
remarked  tentatively. 

Dan  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "They'll  take  a  little 
more  driving.  This  weather  can't  hold  much  longer. 
Must  have  ten  miles  done  before — ground  freezes," 
he  said  with  difficulty. 

And  he,  too,  studied  the  significant  strip  of  brown 
soil — the  only  tangible  sign,  so  far,  of  all  his  labor. 
For  the  twenty-five  minutes  that  the  grade  was  in 
sight  he  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  it. 

352 


THE   FORERUNNER 

It  ended  at  a  creek  which  flowed  at  right  angles 
into  the  river,  and  which  the  stage  crossed  on  a 
wooden  bridge.  Dan's  specifications  called  for  a 
bridge  of  stone  and  iron  a  few  rods  above  this  point, 
but  construction  was  not  to  begin  till  the  spring.  He 
moved  back  into  his  corner  with  another  quick,  gasp 
ing  sigh,  the  involuntary  expression  of  his  bodily  un 
easiness. 

''Next  summer  travelling  this  way '11  be  easier,"  he 
said  to  Manlove. 

"I  should  say  so!  An  hour  in  the  train  instead  of 
five  in  this  old  lumber-wagon — it'll  make  a  differ 
ence!" 

"I  guess  it  will,"  joined  in  one  of  the  other  men 
heartily.  "We'll  see  lively  times  then  sure.  I  cal 
culate  to  put  up  some  kind  of  a  hotel  myself  next 
spring.  Grandview'll  be  booming,  too,  by  the  time 
that  smelter's  a-working." 

"Yes,  I  noticed  something  in  the  paper  about  your 
hotel,"  said  Manlove,  smiling. 

"Ya-as,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  put  it  in,"  the 
man  said,  with  a  slightly  embarrassed  laugh.  "Talk 
ing  about  good  times  helps  to  bring  'em,  7  think." 
He  was  the  postmaster  at  Grandview,  and  also  the 
local  correspondent  of  the  Ralston  Republican,  to 
which  he  sent  a  half-column  of  news  notes  every  even 
ing.  "However,  it  ain't  talking  that  does  the  most, 
I'm  bound  to  say,"  he  added,  with  a  deferential  glance 
at  Dan. 

In  fact,  this  whole  group — the  others  were  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  livery  and  feed  stable  at  River  City,  the 
Sheriff,  and  the  owner  of  a  copper  mine  at  Mallory 
• — betrayed,  in  their  talk  and  demeanor,  a  constant 

353 


THE  FORERUNNER 

consciousness  of  Dan's  presence.  If  he  had  been  In 
clined  to  talk  they  would  have  listened  eagerly. 
Whatever  he  said  would  have  been  food  for  gossip 
in  two  towns,  as  now  his  looks,  his  illness,  would  be. 
He  represented  to  these  less  progressive  citizens  the 
big,  powerful  world  beyond  their  valley.  He  was 
hand-in-glove  with  Eastern  millionnaires — would 
doubtless  be  one  himself.  His  figure  was  the  most 
interesting,  locally,  on  their  widening  horizon;  and 
the  widening,  they  recognized,  was  due  to  him. 

His  appearance,  too,  marked  him  off  definitely 
from  them  all,  even  Manlove.  He  was  muffled  now 
in  a  rough  coat  that  any  one  of  them  might  have  worn, 
but  he  wore  it  with  a  different  air.  And  his  profile, 
visible  to  them  between  the  edges  of  the  high  coat- 
collar,  had  a  power  and  a  significance  which  were  per 
fectly  alien  to  the  resident  type.  He  had  changed 
much,  indeed,  in  the  last  few  months.  The  now  de 
cided  gray  of  his  thick  hair  made  the  heavy  black 
eyebrows  a  more  emphatic  and  striking  feature,  and 
with  the  deepening  of  all  the  lines  of  his  face,  gave  it 
a  certain  ominous  distinction.  Resolute  self-pos 
session  and  dogged  will  spoke  in  the  folds  of  his  brow 
and  the  rigidity  of  his  mouth.  His  expression  had 
gained  in  strength  at  the  cost  of  mobility  and  exuber 
ance. 

Physical  pain  had  now  somewhat  intensified  this 
look  of  stress;  his  face  flushed  dully  as  fever  came 
upon  him  after  the  chill.  The  motion  of  the  stage, 
the  effect  of  the  whiskey,  helped  too  to  make  him 
heavy  and  hazy  as  to  mind;  but  with  a  final  effort 
to  throw  off  this  drowsiness  he  sat  up  and  took  the 
Ealston  newspaper  from  his  coat-pocket.  The 

354 


THE   FORERUNNER 

editorial  headed  "The  Iron  Horse"  was  over  a  col 
umn  in  length,  and  Dan  read  it  all;  with,  however, 
only  a  vague  consciousness  of  phrases  like  "the  march 
of  civilization"  .  .  .  the  far-sighted  enterprise 
and  sagacity  of  one  of  our  leading  citizens  .  .  . 
the  great  future  before  the  people  of  our  district 
.  .  .  hail  the  day  when  the  Iron  Steed,  again 
harnessed  to  our  civic  chariot,  shall  whirl  us  onward 
to  Prosperity.  .  .  .  Reward  of  the  energy  and 
enterprise  so  signally  displayed  by  our — we  may  say 
fellow-townsman,  since  Ralston  divides  with  her 
sister-settlements  the  distinction  and  benefits  of  his 
residence  .  .  .  Councils  of  the  party  .  .  . 
name  of  Daniel  Devin  has  been  mentioned  as  a  pos 
sible  successor  to  our  present  Congressman,  who,  it 
is  known,  will  on  account  of  ill-health  not  be  a  can 
didate  for  re-election." 

Manlove  watched  Dan's  face  as  he  folded  up  the 
paper  and  returned  it  to  his  pocket,  and  then  asked 
hi  a  low  tone,  mindful  of  the  listeners:  "Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  that?" 

"Oh,  Wharton  is  a  fool,"  Dan  responded  con 
temptuously.  "If  he  had  any  influence  he'd  spoil 
anything  he  took  up.  He  jumps  in  like  that  because 
he  knows  he's  an  outsider.  Not  that  it  matters.  I 
don't  want  it." 

And,  looking  quite  immovable,  he  sank  back  again, 
resigning  himself  to  intervals  of  dozing  and  of  sudden 
waking.  Nevertheless,  some  of  those  phrases  kept 
recurring  dimly  in  his  mind;  and  as  sleeping  and 
waking  images  merged  together,  Dan  seemed  to  hear 
some  particularly  orotund  period  rolled  out  in  Judge 
Colfax's  great  voice.  The  Judge  was  offering  him 

355 


THE   FORERUNNER 

the  nomination  for  Congress  .  .  .  they  sat  in 
the  library  before  the  fire  of  hickory  logs  .  .  . 
the  Judge  lifted  his  glass  and  proposed  a  toast  .  .  . 

And  as  with  a  great  jolt  the  brakes  came  down  on 
the  wheels  and  the  coach  slid  down  a  steep  little  hill, 
Dan  woke  and  stared  confusedly  at  the  gray  land 
scape,  with  a  pang  of  more  than  physical  distress. 

From  this  onward  the  road  was  rougher,  the  valley 
narrower,  the  river  more  rapid,  and  more  noisy.  But 
for  the  rest  of  the  journey  Dan  was  completely  silent, 
and  indeed  slept,  except  when  the  recurrent  pain 
disturbed  him. 

It  was  dark  when  they  came  to  the  other  strip  of 
graded  road-bed — of  which  two  miles  from  River 
City  had  been  done — and  the  men  had  stopped  work 
for  the  day.  But  Manlove  and  the  group  of  four 
knew  when  they  had  reached  the  spot — could  even 
tell  how  much  had  been  done  that  day,  measuring 
from  the  great  bowlder  yonder  in  the  river-bed.  They 
talked  in  subdued  tones,  glancing  continually  at  the 
sleeping  man. 

At  half-past  seven  o'clock  they  swung  into  the  sin 
gle  business  street  of  River  City,  along  which  rows 
of  oil-burning  street-lamps  and  the  open  fronts  of 
shops  and  saloons  broke  the  pitch  blackness  of  the 
night.  The  plank  sidewalks  were  rather  crowded, 
and  each  shop  and  each  saloon  had  a  group  about  the 
door;  for  this  was  the  social  after-supper  hour,  as  well 
as  the  time  for  the  arrival  of  the  stage.  Loungers 
were  most  numerous  on  the  steps  of  the  Weaver 
House,  as  the  one  "hotel"  of  the  place  was  called; 
and  here  the  stage  stopped,  amid  a  great  clatter  and 
snorting  of  the  four  horses,  and  a  shout  of  greeting 

356 


THE   FORERUNNER 

from  the  crowd.  There  were  a  good  many  men  also 
in  the  hall  of  the  hotel,  and  in  the  bar,  which  opened 
to  the  left.  On  the  right  was  the  parlor,  a  room  with 
a  melodeon,  lace  curtains,  and  plush  furniture — not 
often  used,  for  guests  as  a  rule  preferred  the  bar.  But 
a  sign  of  recent  festivity  was  now  visible  in  the  middle 
of  a  circle  of  plush  chairs — a  Christmas-tree,  with 
hanging  ropes  of  tinsel  and  popcorn,  and  half-burnt 
candles. 

A  noisy  recognition  greeted  Dan  as  he  walked 
through  the  hall  and  went  into  the  office,  followed  by 
Doc  Weaver,  the  proprietor,  and  Manlove. 

"Any  mail?"  he  asked. 

"Sure,"  replied  Doc  Weaver  amiably,  extracting 
from  a  pigeon-hole  behind  his  desk  a  double  handful 
of  letters  and  two  telegrams.  "These  came  to-day," 
indicating  the  telegrams.  "We  had  four  others  wired 
to  you  at  Cheyenne.  You  got  'em  all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

Dan  started  upstairs  with  his  letters. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  feelin'  just  right — better  let 
me  send  you  up  some  grub.  I'll  tell  Milly.  I  reckon 
she's  been  fixin'  up  somethin'  for  you." 

"No,  no,"  said  Dan  impatiently.  "I'll  come  down. 
Only  have  something  hot,  will  you?" 

"Sure." 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  asked  Manlove. 

"Do  anything?  No,  I  guess  not.  See  you  at  sup 
per." 

Dan  went  on  upstairs  to  his  own  room,  and  Man- 
love  to  the  one  assigned  to  him  by  Doc  Weaver,  who 
himself  proceeded  to  the  dining-room  to  interview 
Milly. 

357 


THE   FORERUNNER 

The  door  of  Dan's  apartment  was  unlocked,  keys 
not  being  much  used  at  the  hotel.  The  room  was 
very  warm — hot,  in  fact.  A  small  stove  in  one  cor 
ner  was  full  of  glowing  coals.  The  red  rep  curtains 
were  drawn  over  the  windows,  and  the  green-shaded 
reading-lamp  was  lit.  It  was  the  best  room  in  the 
house  and  by  far  the  best  furnished — indeed  its  cur 
tains  had  been  plundered  from  the  dining-room,  its 
upholstered  rocking-chair  from  the  parlor,  and  its 
fur  rug,  which  was  very  much  in  Dan's  way,  from 
Doc  Weaver's  private  office.  It  had,  moreover,  been 
newly  swept  and  garnished  against  Dan's  return,  the 
news  of  which,  communicated  by  his  telegram  to 
Manlove,  had  speedily  reached  the  hotel;  but  now 
on  coming  into  it,  he  had  only  a  vague  general  sen 
sation  of  comfort. 

He  threw  off  his  overcoat  and  hat  and  dumped  his 
mail  down  on  the  table,  where  papers  and  pamphlets 
were  arranged  in  neat  piles.  There  were  also  a  num 
ber  of  other  articles  on  the  table,  which  had  not  been 
there  when  he  left— a  pink  tarletan  bag  of  candy 
and  one  of  popcorn;  a  row  of  little  Christmas-cards 
with  landscapes  in  glittering  snow,  birds,  and  various 
inscriptions  on  them;  a  large  glass  inkstand  with  a 
silver  top,  and  a  calendar,  very  large  indeed,  with 
a  cover  elaborately  painted  with  flowers,  and  tied  up 
with  a  blue  ribbon  and  a  sprig  of  holly.  But  Dan  at 
first  did  not  notice  these.  He  was  turning  over  his 
letters,  looking  for  one  which  he  did  not  find.  Anna 
had  not  written  to  him  for  more  than  three  weeks. 
From  Cheyenne  he  had  telegraphed  to  her,  asking  if 
she  were  well.  And  she  had  telegraphed  back  that 
she  was  and  would  write,  but  the  letter  hadn't  come. 

358 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Dan  let  his  other  letters  lie  and  took  off  his  coat, 
collar,  and  tie,  intending  to  get  ready  for  supper.  Hot 
and  cold  water  were  ready  to  his  hand  in  two  large  tin 
pitchers.  But  he  was  stiff  and  aching  in  every 
muscle,  and  intensely  depressed.  He  dropped  into 
the  rocking-chair,  and  his  tired  eyes  rested  for  a  mo 
ment  on  the  little  gifts,  his  share  of  the  Christmas- 
tree.  The  inkstand  was  presented  by  Mrs.  Manlove 
— in  recognition  of  a  great  many  gifts  to  her  children. 
The  Christmas-cards  were  from  some  of  the  school 
children,  to  whom  Dan  had  presented  the  tree.  The 
calendar  bore  no  inscription,  but  the  donor  might  be 
identified  by  the  resemblance  between  its  handiwork 
and  that  of  various  other  objects  scattered  about  the 
room.  There  was,  for  example,  a  scrap-basket  made 
of  stiffened  twine,  with  flowers  worked  on  it  in  rib 
bons.  There  were  two  water-colors  on  the  wall,  of 
roses  and  heart's-ease  respectively.  There  was  an 
apparatus  consisting  of  tongs,  shovel,  and  bellows; 
the  tongs  and  shovel  having  gilded  handles,  and  the 
bellows  a  bunch  of  roses  painted  on  its  leather  side. 
There  was,  finally,  a  case  for  shaving-paper,  with  a 
similar  floral  design,  hanging  by  the  bureau.  But,  as 
it  happened,  Dan  had  never  attached  any  personal 
significance  to  these  articles,  any  more  than  he  had 
to  the  curtains,  the  rocker,  or  the  fur  rug.  Therefore 
the  calendar  made  no  impression  on  his  mind ;  which 
indeed  for  the  moment  was  no  more  active  than  his 
very  weary  body. 

The  heat  and  glow  from  the  open  door  of  the  stove, 
the  sudden  change  from  dark  and  cold,  had  made  him 
irresistibly  sleepy.  But  the  pain  in  his  chest  still 
kept  rousing  him.  He  would  doze  and  wake  gasping, 

359 


THE  FORERUNNER 

but  with  not  enough  energy  to  get  up,  as  he  kept  in 
tending  to  do. 

A  knock  at  the  door  finally  woke  him  and  he  tried 
to  call  out,  in  vain.  After  a  moment  the  knock  was 
repeated.  He  lifted  himself  and  went  to  open  the 
door.  Milly  Vawter,  the  housekeeper,  was  there, 
carrying  a  tray  covered  with  a  napkin. 

"I've  brought  up  your  supper/'  she  said,  walking 
past  Dan  and  setting  the  tray  on  the  table.  She  had 
no  smile  or  other  greeting  for  him  this  time. 

"But  I'm  coming  down — all  nonsense,"  said  Dan. 

"Excuse  me,  you're  not,"  said  Milly.  She  looked 
hard  at  Dan's  flushed  face  and  dull  eyes.  "You're 
not  fit  to  be  out  of  bed,"  she  added  severely.  And 
pushing  the  letters  and  the  Christmas-gifts  to  one  side 
with  an  angry  gesture,  she  began  setting  out  the  white 
china  plate,  cup  and  saucer,  the  worn,  plated  "silver" 
and  various  small  covered  dishes,  glancing  all  the 
while  at  Dan,  who  was  laboriously  getting  into  his 
coat. 

Milly  was  a  small  woman,  very  slender,  very  erect, 
with  short  dark  hair,  bright  eyes,  a  vivid  color,  and 
a  defiant  way  of  carrying  her  head.  She  looked  about 
thirty;  her  face  was  rather  worn,  yet  full  of  vitality. 
Her  eyes  gleamed  and  her  lips  were  sharply  com 
pressed  as  she  finished  laying  out  Dan's  supper. 

"There's  hot  milk  toast,  ham  an'  eggs,  cold  pork, 
tea,  biscuits,  and  canned  peaches,"  she  said  with  her 
exasperated  air.  "Better  eat  the  hot  things  right 
away,  while  they  are  hot." 

"Thanks,  I  will — just  leave  'em  there,  will  you," 
Dan  said  hazily. 

He  was  leaning  against  one  of  the  posts  of  the  high, 
360 


THE  FORERUNNER 

old-fashioned  bed,  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  not 
see  his  clinched  fist  pressed  hard  against  the  spot  in 
his  back  where  the  pain  stabbed  him.  But  another 
sign  of  distress  was  not  to  be  concealed — his  quick, 
labored  breathing.  He  frowned,  waiting  for  her  to 
go.  He  had  no  intention  of  eating,  and  Milly  saw 
that. 

"Isn't  there  anything  else  you'd  like — if  you  could 
get  it?"  she  asked,  lingering. 

"Not  a  thing,  thanks.     More  there  than  I  want." 

"You  don't  want  anything.  You're  sick,  Mr. 
Devin.  Don't  tell  me.  I  can  see  it.  You  must  have 
a  doctor — if  you  can  get  one." 

"No,  Milly,  I  won't  have  it!    I'll  be  all  right  in 

morning     .     .     .     hot  bath     .     .     .     whiskey  sling 

)) 

"You're  a  sick  man,  Mr.  Devin!  It's  your  busi 
ness  to  see  a  doctor.  I'm  going  to  have  them  tele 
graph  to  Ralston,  I  don't  care  what  you  say." 

Dan  sat  heavily  down  in  the  chair  again.  "Ask 
Manlove  to  come  up,"  he  said. 

Milly  went  over  to  him,  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
lightly  touched  his  forehead. 

"You're  burning  with  fever!  Have  you  got  a  pain 
in  your  side?  Does  it  hurt  you  to  breathe?" 

"No." 

"You're  sure?  Sure  you  haven't  a  bad  pain  in 
your  back  or  side?" 

"Sure.  I'm  all  right.  Just  send  up  some  hot 
water,  will  you?  I'll  go  to  bed,  I  guess." 

"All  right,  you'd  better." 

Milly  went  reluctantly  out  of  the  room,  with  back 
ward,  suspicious  glances.  But  the  door  once  closed 

361 


THE   FORERUNNER 

behind  her,  she  ran  swiftly  downstairs  and  into  the 
dining-room,  her  light  tread  echoing  through  the 
flimsily  built  and  almost  empty  house.  In  summer 
the  place  had  usually  a  number  of  visitors,  and  ac 
cordingly  it  was  arranged  for  summer,  with  bare  walls 
and  bare  floors  or  slippery  matting.  The  dining- 
room  was  like  a  chilly  barn.  Its  muslin  curtains 
were  folded  away,  three  of  its  four  long  tables  were 
blankly  vacant,  and  at  the  fourth,  under  the  bleak 
glare  of  a  kerosene  lamp  fastened  to  the  wall,  Man- 
love,  Banks,  and  a  few  other  men  were  taking  a  hasty 
meal.  Doc  Weaver  lounged  beside  the  table,  talking 
to  them  and  doing  what  waiting  on  them  was  neces 
sary.  He  had  long  since  ceased  to  protest  against 
having  to  do  a  part  of  Milly's  work  while  she  attended 
on  Dan.  She  had  resented  his  first  grumblings  too 
fiercely.  "Supposing  I  do  take  extra  pains  with  his 
things,  ain't  he  the  best  customer  you've  got?"  she 
cried.  "Don't  he  keep  the  best  room  all  winter  and 
pay  more  for  it  and  give  less  trouble  than  anybody 
you  ever  had  in  it?  You  don't  know  your  own  busi 
ness."  And  Milly's  employer  had  not  resented  this 
remark.  In  fact  it  was  generally  considered  that  he 
could  not  get  on  without  Milly.  It  was  known  that 
he  had  offered  to  marry  her,  when  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Weaver  promoted  the  summer  waitress  to  house 
keeper — doubtless  with  the  idea  that  he  would  thus 
be  able  to  manage  her  better  and  pay  her  less.  But 
obviously  Milly  preferred  her  present  position.  She 
came  into  the  room  now  with  an  air  of  authority. 

"Mr.  Manlove,"  she  said  imperiously,  "I  think 
you'd  better  telegraph  to  Ralston  for  a  doctor.  Mr 
Devin  is  sick,  and  I  believe  he's  got  pneumonia." 

362 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"What?  What  makes  you  think  so?"  demanded 
Manlove,  pushing  back  his  chair. 

"My  mother  died  of  it,  and  I  took  care  of  her.  He's 
got  a  raging  fever  and  he  can  hardly  breathe.  I'm 
sure  it's  that.  But  don't  stay  here  talking!  Go  and 
send  the  telegram.  You  better  telegraph  to  the  hos 
pital  in  Ralston.  Tell  them  to  send  the  best  one 
they  have,  and  tell  them  who  it's  for.  He  must  drive 
over  to-night — even  now  it'll  be  morning  before  he 
gets  here.  Oh,  what  idiots  men  are!"  Tears  were 
in  her  eyes.  "To  think  he's  come  back  here  like 
this.  Couldn't  you  see  he  was  sick?"  She  turned 
fiercely  on  Manlove,  who  had  risen. 

"I  thought  he  was  sick,  but  nothing  so  serious  as 
that,"  he  said  in  alarm.  "The  doctor  at  Cheyenne 
told  him  it  was  bronchitis.  I'd  better  go  up  and  see 
him." 

"Bronchitis!  It's  worse  'n  that.  He  was  sick 
when  he  went  away  a  week  ago  and  he's  been  getting 
worse  ever  since,  and  not  a  one  of  you  had  sense  to  see 
it.  You  ought  to  have  kept  him  in  Ralston,  where 
he  could  have  got  a  doctor  at  least." 

Milly  rapped  out  her  quick  staccato  sentences,  look 
ing  with  scorn  at  Manlove,  who  wrinkled  his  brow 
distressfully.  All  the  men  at  the  table  had  stopped 
eating  and  were  listening;  and  Banks,  a  heavily  built 
man  with  a  brush-like  black  mustache  and  prominent 
blue  eyes,  was  staring  at  Milly's  flushed  face. 

"I'll  go  up  and  see  him,"  began  Manlove,  moving 
off. 

"You'd  better  telegraph  first!  If  you  don't,  I  will. 
You  know  how  he  is.  He  don't  like  any  fuss  made, 
and  he'll  tell  you  not  to  do  it.  But  it's  going  to  be 

363 


THE   FORERUNNER 

done;   if  I  have  to  do  it  myself.    If  it's  pneumonia 

it  comes  like  that "  and  she  snapped  her  nervous 

fingers. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  get  Simmons  first?"  suggested 
Doc  Weaver,  standing  irresolutely  on  one  foot. 

"Simmons!  I  won't  have  that  old  fossil  in  the 
house.  It's  bad  enough  to  be  in  a  hole  like  this,  where 
he  can't  have  decent  care,  without  getting  a  man  to 
murder  him.  Hurry  up,  Mr.  Manlove!" 

With  an  irrepressible  sob  Milly  dashed  into  the 
kitchen,  and  set  her  helper,  a  negro  woman,  to  heat 
ing  pails  full  of  water.  Manlove,  pulling  on  his  over 
coat,  went  out  with  Doc  Weaver,  and  the  other  men 
at  the  table  began  to  discuss  the  situation;  except 
Banks,  who  stolidly  went  on  with  his  supper. 

"I'll  just  run  up  and  have  a  look  at  him  first,"  Man- 
love  said,  glancing  over  his  shoulder.  "Women  are 
apt  to  fly  off  the  handle,  you  know,  and  get  scared 
when  there's  no  need " 

"All  right,  but  don't  let  her  ketch  ye,"  was  Doc 
Weaver's  advice.  He  prudently  disappeared  into  the 
office,  but  looked  out  a  few  minutes  later  when  Man- 
love  came  down.  "Well?" 

"By  George,  I  don't  know!  He  says  there's  noth 
ing  the  matter  with  him  and  that  he  won't  have  the 
doctor.  He  wants  to  see  Banks  in  about  half  an  hour. 
He's  going  to  take  a  hot  bath  and  some  whiskey  and 
go  to  bed,  and  he  says  he  don't  want  to  be  bothered. 
But — he  does  look  sick.  I'm  afraid  it's  worse  than 
he  wants  to  admit.  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

Banks  came  out  into  the  hall,  wiping  his  mustache 
with  his  napkin,  and  several  men  in  the  bar  came 
forward.  "Well,  what  is  it?"  asked  Banks. 

364 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Manlove  helplessly.  "He 
wants  to  see  you  in  half  an  hour.  But  I  don't  know 
whether  to  telegraph  or  not." 

"You  heard  what  Milly  said,"  remarked  Doc 
Weaver.  "I  reckon  you  better  telegraph.  She'll 
skin  you  if  you  don't." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'd  better.  After  all,  if  it  should  be 
pneumonia,  it's  pretty  serious.  He  told  me  not  to, 
but — I  guess  I  will.  She's  right,  you  know,  about 
Simmons.  I  wouldn't  have  him  doctor  a  horse  for 
me — no  offence  to  you,  Doc."  And  Manlove  bolted 
in  some  confusion,  for  Doc  Weaver — a  former  veteri 
nary  surgeon — was  touchy  on  the  point  of  his  pro 
fession.  Manlove,  his  childlike  eyes  fairly  bulging 
with  anxiety,  ran  diagonally  across  the  street  to  the 
white-frame  building  which  housed  a  Dry-Goods 
Emporium,  the  post-office,  and  the  telegraph  station. 

Doc  Weaver  was  instantly  assailed  by  questions 
from  the  men  in  the  bar  and  the  others  who  came  out 
from  the  dining-room.  While  he  was  parrying  these 
inquiries  in  his  drawling  voice,  made  more  indistinct 
by  the  habitual  tooth  pick  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth, 
Milly  called  sharply  to  him  and  he  went  hastily. 

"I  want  a  bottle  of  whiskey — the  best  you've  got. 
And  I  want  somebody  to  carry  up  water  for  his  bath 
— George  ain't  here,  as  usual,  when  he's  wanted.  He 
ought  to  have  sponge  baths  to  get  the  fever  down — 
if  he'll  let  us  do  it.  You  come  up  a  minute  and  help 
me — but  first  get  the  whiskey." 

"All  right,  Milly — only  don't  get  excited  now — 
keep  your  head  cool,  you  know,"  Doc  Weaver  ad 
vised,  edging  away. 

"Head  cool!  I'm  the  only  person  in  this  God- 
365 


THE   FORERUNNER 

forsaken  place  that's  got  any  to  keep  cool!"  cried 
Milly.  "Come  right  along." 

And  she  flew  lightly  upstairs,  holding  up  her  neat 
pink  dress,  which,  with  the  white  satin  stock  tied 
primly  round  her  slim  throat,  had  been  assumed  in  view 
of  Dan's  arrival.  But  Milly  was  not  thinking  of  her 
dress,  nor  of  herself.  Her  eyes  were  strained  and  her 
throat  tense  with  emotion,  crushed  down  in  order 
that  she  might  meet  the  sudden  emergency  which 
fear  made  visible  to  her.  Hers  was  the  most  intense 
feeling  at  the  knowledge  of  Dan's  illness.  But  the 
news  was  spreading  rapidly,  radiating  from  the  two 
centres  of  the  hotel  and  telegraph  office,  and  in  a  short 
time  River  City  knew  all  that  was  to  be  known,  and 
more. 

Meantime  Dan  had  bolted  his  door,  in  the  belief 
that  he  was  to  be  left  alone.  In  a  small,  adjoining 
room,  which  had  been  converted  into  a  bath-room  for 
him,  his  hot  bath  was  now  made  ready;  and  Dan 
through  the  door  directed  Milly  to  leave  the  whiskey 
outside,  as  well  as  the  egg-nog  she  brought  him,  and 
declined  sponge  baths  or  any  other  ministrations 
whatsoever.  Finally,  as  she  persisted,  he  growled: 
"For  heaven's  sake,  go  away!  I  don't  want  any 
more  bother." 

In  the  ensuing  silence  he  faintly  regretted  his  rough 
ness,  but  after  all  it  was  intolerable  to  be  bothered 
just  now.  He  felt  that  he  couldn't  bear  it.  He 
knew  he  was  ill,  he  was  suffering  very  much,  and  his 
instinct  was  to  shut  everybody  out  and  to  endure  it 
alone,  as  he  was  now  used  to  endure.  He  had  an 
intense  dislike  of  appearing  to  be  ill;  and  he  disliked 
being  waited  on,  or  as  he  put  it,  "bothered."  Often 

366 


THE   FORERUNNER 

he  had  gone  without  some  convenience,  rather  than 
ask  for  service,  even  when  he  knew  it  would  be  gladly 
rendered.  And  now,  as  there  was  no  one  who  had 
the  right  or  authority  to  take  him  in  charge,  he  shot 
his  bolts,  with  a  dull  satisfaction,  and  shut  himself  in 
with  his  hidden  pain. 

Milly  went  away  crying;  but  she  did  not  go  far. 
She  sat  in  the  doorway  of  one  of  the  empty  rooms 
along  the  hall.  Presently  she  saw  Banks  come  up 
stairs,  with  his  heavy  walk,  and  go  into  Dan's  room. 
He  had  a  sheaf  of  letters  in  his  hand — Dan's  mail, 
which  had  come  by  the  stage.  And  walking  up  and 
down  the  hall,  Milly  heard  their  voices  in  conference 
— Banks's  bass  booming  out,  and  Dan's,  weaker,  al 
most  a  murmur — for  nearly  an  hour.  Meantime  Man- 
love  came  up  and  reported.  He  had  telegraphed, 
and  they  were  to  send  a  doctor  from  the  hospital. 
He  would  drive  over,  but  it  would  be  at  least  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning  before  he  could  reach  River 
City.  They  had  asked  if  they  were  to  send  a  nurse; 
and  he  didn't  know  how  to  reply. 

"No,  I'll  take  care  of  him  myself,"  said  Milly 
quickly.  "I  know  a  good  deal  about  nursing." 

"But  you  won't  have  time,  will  you?"  Manlove 
asked.  "If  he's  really  very  sick  he  ought  to  have  a 
trained " 

Milly  interrupted,  with  an  angry  gesture. 

"Time  enough  for  that  to-morrow.  I  can  take 
care  of  him  till  then,  anyway,  I  guess,"  she  said 
jealously.  "Telegraph  there  is  a  person  here  who 
has  done  nursing,  and  they  needn't  send  anyone  yet," 

"How  is  he?" 

"He's  talking  to  that  man  Banks." 
367 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"Well,"  with  a  sigh,  "I'll  go  and  telegraph.  And 
then  I'll  finish  my  supper.  If  you  want  me,  call  me." 

When  Banks  finally  came  out,  Milly  was  near  Dan's 
door.  Banks  stood  with  the  door  half  open,  and 
Milly  heard  Dan  say,  "I'll  see  you  to-morrow  then. 
Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  said  the  contractor.  "Can  I  do  any 
thing  for  you?" 

"No,  thanks.     Shut  the  door,  please." 

Banks  was  about  to  shut  it,  but  Milly  intervened. 

"I  must  fix  the  fire,"  she  said  and  walked  into  the 
room,  closing  the  door  after  her.  Dan  was  lying  in 
bed,  propped  up  on  the  two  pillows,  with  letters  and 
torn  envelopes  scattered  about  him  on  the  coverlet. 
He  had  in  his  hand,  and  was  re-reading,  the  long  ex 
pected  letter  from  Anna.  He  glanced  up,  with  an 
eager,  abstracted  look,  and  frowned  at  Milly.  "Too 
hot  now,"  he  said. 

But  Milly  put  some  coal  on  the  dwindling  fire,  using 
her  gilt-handled  shovel,  and  shut  the  doors  of  the 
stove.  The  window  was  wide  open,  and  she  shut  it, 
and  opened  the  one  in  the  dressing-room,  leaving  the 
connecting  door  ajar. 

"That'll  give  you  plenty  of  air.  It's  getting  colder. 
I'll  bring  you  up  some  beef-tea  as  soon  as  it's  ready." 

"No,  thanks,  don't  want  it." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  hot-water  bottle,  or  some 
more  pillows?" 

"No." 

Dan  shut  his  eyes  and  moved  his  head  impatiently. 

"Good-night,"  he  said. 

When  at  last  she  had  gone,  Dan  got  up  and  once 
more  bolted  his  door.  Then  again  he  re-read  the 

368 


THE   FORERUNNER 

brief  note  in  Anna's  writing,  which  during  his  whole 
interview  with  Banks  he  had  held  folded  in  his  hand. 
Its  brevity,  its  very  phrasing — which  Anna  had  meant 
to  make  vague  and  non-committal — had  for  Dan  a 
definite  significance. 

She  wrote  that  she  wanted  to  see  him,  on  a  matter 
of  importance;  she  asked  when  he  was  coming  East. 
That  was  all,  but  it  was  enough  to  change  Dan's  whole 
mental  outlook.  His  inveterate  hopefulness,  given 
even  that  narrow  foothold,  sprang  up  full-statured. 
He  saw  in  Anna's  letter  an  offer  of  reconciliation. 

What  else  could  it  mean  to  him,  since,  in  spite  of 
the  definite  break  between  them,  he  had  never,  after 
all,  been  able  to  conceive  that  they  should  live  all 
their  lives  apart?  In  all  the  unhappiness  of  the  last 
three  months  the  feeling  had  haunted  him  obscurely 
that  this  could  not  last  forever;  that  something  must 
happen  for  the  better.  And  this  feeling  came  simply 
from  the  emptiness  at  the  heart  of  his  life,  from  his 
unbearable  loneliness.  He  did  not  see  how  he  was 
to  go  on  living  and  working  with  no  object  in  it  all; 
and  therefore,  in  some  way,  he  thought,  Anna  must 
come  back  to  him.  Even  though  their  life  together 
never  could  be  what  he  had  hoped,  still  she  must 
come  back.  For  after  all,  in  spite  of  anything  he 
might  have  said,  she  belonged  to  him;  he  could  not 
see  how  he  was  to  live  without  her. 

This  feeling  had  grown  stronger  as  his  prospects  of 
material  success  became  more  assured.  Within  the 
last  month  he  had  secured  the  object  for  which  he 
had  been  working:  the  railroad  was  a  certainty, 
and  his  own  profits  from  this  undertaking,  from  the 
smelter  and  the  mines,  were  clearly  in  sight.  They 

369 


THE  FORERUNNER 

would  be  large;  he  felt  himself  fairly  upon  his  feet 
again.  And  now  also  he  had  a  definite  prospect  to 
offer.  He  could  make  Anna  comfortable;  she  would 
be  able  to  have  the  sort  of  home  she  wanted;  and 
thus  the  basis  of  her  complaint  against  him  would  be 
removed. 

It  was  not,  however,  clear  in  his  mind  just  how 
this  obvious  reason  for  Anna's  returning  to  him  was 
to  be  presented  to  her.  Silently  he  had  hoped  and 
waited  for  some  word  from  her — some  sign  of  regret, 
or  repentance.  Little  wonder,  therefore,  that  he 
seized  upon  her  letter — the  expression  of  a  wish  to 
see  him,  the  evident  desire  for  some  change  in  their 
relations — as  the  sign  he  had  longed  for.  The  truth 
of  the  matter  was  not  within  the  reach  of  his  imag 
ination.  No  fear  or  jealous  idea  occurred  to  him, 
for  the  reason  that  to  him  Anna  was  still  simply  his 
wife;  and  what  in  a  flash  had  seemed  a  possibility — 
on  that  last  night  in  New  York  —  never  really 
lodged  in  his  mind.  He  could  not  imagine  Anna 
capable  of  deviation,  or  change  from  what  he  had 
known  of  her  character. 

He  immediately  began  to  plan  to  get  away,  to  go 
to  New  York.  It  was  a  favorable  time,  for  work 
must  soon  stop  on  the  road-bed,  until  the  spring. 
An  unusually  mild  season  had  permitted  the  grading 
to  be  begun,  but  with  this  storm  the  winter  doubtless 
would  close  down  upon  the  valley;  and  it  would  be 
three  months  before  that  work  could  be  resumed. 
There  remained,  for  the  most  important  things,  the 
letting  of  contracts  to  lay  the  track,  and  to  build  the 
necessary  bridges  across  various  small  streams — but 
he  could  see  his  way  clear  to  taking  two  weeks  off — 

370 


THE   FORERUNNER 

say  a  week  or  so  hence.  He  resolved  to  telegraph 
Anna  to  that  effect. 

And  having  settled  this,  the  first  excitement  of  it 
passing  off,  he  became  keenly  sensible  again  of  his 
bodily  discomfort.  He  felt — for  the  first  time  with 
some  alarm — that  it  was  increasing,  and  that  some 
thing  serious  had  got  hold  of  him,  an  unknown  and 
hostile  force.  He  summoned  the  strength  of  his  will 
to  fight  it.  He  could  not  afford  to  be  ill,  now  of  all 
times. 

He  regretted,  as  he  tried  to  find  some  ease  in  re 
arranging  his  pillows,  in  lying  down  or  sitting  up, 
that  he  had  not  stayed  in  Ralston — except  in  that 
case  he  would  not  have  got  Anna's  letter  so  soon. 
He  regretted  that  he  had  not  let  Manlove  send  for  a 
doctor.  The  thought  that  he  must  endure  this  pain 
and  obstruction  of  his  breathing,  all  night,  when  it 
might  have  been  eased,  was  hard.  He  wished 
vaguely,  also,  that  he  had  allowed  Milly  to  bring  him 
the  hot-water  bottle,  or  something  that  might  have 
helped  a  little.  At  one  time  he  thought  of  calling 
someone,  but  reluctance  to  disturb  any  of  them  pre 
vailed. 

If  he  had  known  it,  Milly  was  at  that  moment  in 
the  corridor  near  his  door,  sitting  in  a  straight- 
backed  wooden  chair,  so  that  she  might  not  fall 
asleep,  and  wrapped  in  a  heavy  ulster  against  the 
keen  currents  of  wind  that  sifted  through  the  cracks 
of  ill-fitting  window-sashes.  She  listened  for  sounds 
from  his  room  until  two  o'clock,  and  then  went  up 
to  summon  Manlove  to  take  her  place.  He  was  to 
wake  her  if  Dan  gave  any  sign. 

But  Dan  was  perfectly  silent  all  night  long.  He 
371 


THE   FORERUNNER 

moved  about  in  his  room,  but  he  did  it  noiselessly. 
He  could  not  sleep.  He  could  not  stifle  the  keen 
pain,  nor  forget  it  for  a  moment.  To  lie  down  was 
impossible;  breathing  constantly  became  more  diffi 
cult.  He  counted  the  slow  hours  by  his  watch 
lying  on  the  table.  From  his  uneasy  bed  he  saw 
the  dawn  break  at  last  over  the  hills  beyond  the 
river.  Then  with  infinite  pains  he  dressed  himself. 
The  stage  left  for  Ralston  at  seven  o'clock.  He  meant 
to  go  to  Ralston  to  see  a  doctor;  but  first  he  intended 
to  inspect  the  work  on  the  road-bed. 

At  six  o'clock  he  left  his  room,  passed  Manlove, 
who  was  slumbering  in  his  chair;  and  with  the  rem 
nant  of  his  strength  went  slowly  down  the  stairs  and 
into  the  street.  Nobody  had  seen  him  except  the 
negro  woman  who  was  washing  the  hall  floor. 


372 


XV. 


morning  was  dark,  with  a  troubled  sky  and  a 
cold  wind  sprinkling  about  little  pellets  of  ice  — 
signs  of  the  coming  storm.  Milly,  having  overslept  by 
a  little  the  time  she  had  set  for  herself,  came  hurriedly 
downstairs  at  half-past  six,  to  find  Dan's  room  empty 
and  Manlove  still  sleeping.  A  bad  ten  minutes  fol 
lowed.  Manlove,  dazed  by  his  violent  awakening 
and  by  the  picture  of  Dan  wandering  in  delirium, 
rushed  into  the  street.  The  old  negress,  wildly  ques 
tioned  by  Milly,  was  able  to  point  the  direction  in 
which  Dan  had  gone  :  first  to  the  telegraph-office,  then 
on  up  the  street.  And  Manlove  had  not  run  a  hun 
dred  yards  before  one  of  the  few  men  abroad  at  that 
hour  could  tell  him  the  exact  whereabouts  of  his 
charge.  Dan  had  taken  a  buggy  and  driver  at  the 
livery-stable,  and  had  left  word  for  the  stage-driver 
to  pick  him  up  outside  the  town  on  the  Ralston  road. 
Manlove  ran  on  to  the  stable;  and  there,  while  they 
were  saddling  a  horse  for  him,  the  men  who  were 
washing  down  the  stage  in  front  of  the  place  gave 
him  their  impressions  of  Dan.  He  looked  pretty 
bad,  they  thought,  and  they'd  been  struck  all  of  a 
heap  to  see  him  come  walking  down  the  street,  when 
everybody  knew  a  doctor  had  been  sent  for;  but  of 
course  it  was  none  of  their  business  to  stop  him,  and 
anyhow  he  looked  like  he  didn't  mean  to  be  stopped. 
The  horses  were  being  brought  out  for  the  stage  as 

373 


THE   FORERUNNER 

Manlove  mounted  and  rode  off  at  full  speed.  He  had 
a  mile  to  go,  and  ten  minutes'  start  of  the  stage ;  and 
he  made  the  mile  in  less  than  the  ten  minutes,  bending 
low  in  the  saddle  to  avoid  the  stinging  onrush  of  ice- 
flakes,  mingled  now  with  snow.  The  wind,  dead 
against  him,  was  rising  every  moment;  and  Manlove 
smarted,  not  so  much  under  its  actual  lash,  as  at  the 
thought  of  Dan  exposed  to  it. 

In  fact,  Dan  had  got  out  of  his  buggy,  and  when 
Manlove  caught  sight  of  him,  was  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  graded  strip  of  road-bed  to  the  right, 
looking  off  across  the  broadening  plain  toward  Ral 
ston.  For  another  mile  the  grade  was  visible,  de 
scending  slowly,  then  climbing  a  gentle  rise,  at  the 
foot  of  which  stood  a  group  of  shanties  for  the  work 
men.  But  the  wind  rushing  up  the  valley  brought 
a  thickening  cloud  of  snow,  and  the  distance  began 
to  be  obscured. 

A  small  procession  carried  Dan — quite  in  his  senses 
and  half  inclined  to  be  angry — back  to  the  hotel: 
Manlove  driving  him  in  the  buggy,  then  the  horse 
ridden  by  the  stableman,  and  lastly  the  Ralston  doc 
tor  in  his  buggy,  muffled  up  to  his  eyes,  half  frozen 
and  in  a  reasonably  bad  temper.  He  was  very  young, 
the  doctor,  and  his  important  air  was  qualified  by  a 
youthful  expressiveness.  He  glanced  at  Dan  in  the 
hall  and  ordered  him  immediately  to  bed.  Then, 
trying  to  thaw  himself  out  by  the  freshly  kindled  fire 
in  the  bar,  he  vented  his  displeasure  on  Doc  Weaver, 
the  only  person  at  the  moment  available. 

"What  kind  of  a  damned  fool  is  that  man  any 
way?"  he  demanded.  "And  why  couldn't  you  look 
after  him?  If  he's  sick  enough  to  bring  me  over  here 

374 


THE   FORERUNNER 

on  a  journey  like  this,  it  strikes  me  he  might  have 
had  a  little  more  attention  from  you.  Pneumonia 
and  out  in  this  wind!  Ten  to  one,  if  he's  got  pneu 
monia  he's  done  for  himself.  Blamed  idiots  people 
are.  Well,  where  is  he?" 

Doc  Weaver  led  the  way  upstairs,  and  holding  him 
self  entirely  guiltless,  he  proceeded,  while  the  doctor 
was  making  his  examination,  to  repeat  his  words  to 
Milly  and  Manlove,  not  without  a  secret  feeling  of 
triumph.  The  two  culprits,  or  at  least  the  chief  one, 
looked  pale  and  miserable  enough.  Milly  was  speech 
less.  Accusing  herself,  she  raged  still  more  bitterly 
against  Manlove.  If  black  looks  could  have  made 
him  more  unhappy  than  he  was,  Milly  would  gladly 
have  seen  him  so.  But  he  sat  huddled  up  in  his  chair 
— they  were  all  waiting  in  the  hall  for  the  doctor — 
his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  unheeding  her. 

Graham,  the  young  doctor,  came  out  with  an  en 
velope  in  his  hand,  and  looked  at  the  little  group  with 
some  uncertainty. 

" Who's  looking  after  him?"  he  asked  abruptly, 
and  added,  "If  anybody  is." 

"We  are — I  am,"  Milly  said.  "Mr.  Manlove  is  his 
friend,  and  I  can  take  care  of  him." 

"Oh.     He  hasn't  got  any  relatives  about  here?" 

"No.  Do  you — mean — he  is  in  danger?"  she 
panted. 

"I  don't  say  that.  Only  there  seems  to  be  no 
body  with  any  say  as  to  things.  He's  too  sick  to 
know  himself.  He  must  have  a  regular  nurse  first 
thing." 

"It's  pneumonia?"  Manlove  asked. 

"Yes — right  lung.  He's  got  a  high  temperature, 
375 


THE  FORERUNNER 

he's  all  run  down,  and  his  heart  seems  weak.  Got 
any  ice?" 

With  a  panic-stricken  exchange  of  glances  they 
had  to  answer  that  there  was  none  in  the  town. 

"Well,  telegraph  to  the  hospital,  tell  them  to  send 
a  wagon-load  of  ice  right  off,  and  have  Miss  Steele 
come  by  the  afternoon  stage.  Or  hold  on — I'll  write 
the  telegram  to  her.  And  you,  get  up  some  cold 
water,  will  you — as  cold  as  you  can — and  some  whis 
key,  and  a  glass  and  teaspoon.  I'd  like  a  cup  of 
coffee,  too,  and  something  to  eat.  Who's  Mr.  Man- 
love?  This  must  be  for  you — it  was  on  the  table 
and  he  asked  me  to  give  it  to  you." 

He  handed  the  envelope  to  Manlove  with  a  curt, 
professional  air  and  turned  back  into  the  room. 

In  the  envelope  were  a  key  and  the  brief  note 
scrawled  to  let  Manlove  know  that  Dan  was  going  to 
the  hospital  at  Ralston;  that  all  his  business  papers 
were  in  the  top  of  his  trunk,  which  the  key  would 
open;  and  that  if  he,  Dan,  did  not  return  to  business 
within  two  or  three  days,  Manlove  was  to  telegraph 
the  facts  to  Josiah  Purcell,  Marshbrook,  Mass. 

But  as  yet  Dan  had  by  no  means  given  up.  He 
kept  hold  of  himself,  with  a  dogged  resolve  not  to 
yield,  with  a  keen  consciousness  of  all  that  was  going 
01  around  him.  He  questioned  the  doctor,  with  an 
almost  amused  perception  of  Graham's  air  of  author 
ity  and  the  flurry  of  nervousness  underneath  it.  Dan 
put  down  the  nervousness  to  the  doctor's  youth  and 
not  to  the  seriousness  of  his  case.  He  could  not 
believe,  in  spite  of  the  extreme  and  increasing  physi 
cal  discomfort,  that  it  was  anything  very  serious.  It 

376 


THE   FORERUNNER 

had  not  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  be  very  ill. 
And  now,  in  the  present  circumstances,  it  would  be 
too  absurd — it  must  not  be  allowed. 

When  they  moved  his  bed  into  the  middle  of  the 
room  he  wished  to  get  up;  the  alarm  on  the  faces  of 
the  men  who  were  called  in  to  move  him  affected  him 
unpleasantly.  However,  though  he  would  ask  ques 
tions,  he  obeyed  the  positive  orders  of  the  doctor; 
submitted  to  the  spongings  with  ice-cold  water,  took 
the  medicines  and  the  whiskey,  and  finally  even  gave 
up  the  effort  to  find  out  what  his  temperature  was, 
and  whether  he  would  be  able  to  see  Banks  on  the 
next  day  or  the  day  after. 

Gradually  he  became  less  anxious  to  see  Banks, 
willing  even  to  be  quiet.  The  disease  that  he  had 
been  fighting  unconsciously  for  a  week,  and  con 
sciously  for  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  began  to  get 
the  upper  hand  of  him.  Insensibly  the  tension  of 
his  will  relaxed;  the  mounting  fever  forced  him  down; 
lassitude,  weakness,  prostration  followed  quickly. 
Things  began  to  get  blurred.  He  ceased  to  think 
definitely  about  what  had  been  worrying  him.  His 
consciousness  was  absorbed  for  the  time  in  those  very 
physical  details  which  he  had  tried  to  ignore — the 
problem  of  getting  breath,  of  getting  a  moment's 
ease,  of  dealing  with  that  perpetual  pain.  Then  even 
these  became  vaguer,  as  sleep  overpowered  him. 

He  was  clearly  aware  that  night  of  the  new  pres 
ence  of  the  nurse — a  person  in  light  uniform,  with  a 
composed  face  and  strong,  cool  hands — and  of  her  busi 
ness-like  conferences  with  the  doctor.  The  two  did 
not  always  trouble  to  lower  their  voices,  and  he  caught 

377 


THE  FORERUNNER 

the  drift  of  what  they  were  saying  about  him.  He 
knew  when  they  were  about  to  put  the  ice-pack  on 
his  chest,  and  when  a  new  medicine  was  given.  He 
felt  that  they  were  taking  him  very  seriously,  and  he 
meant  to  find  out  ...  a  little  later  .  .  . 
when  he  could  get  some  breath  and  strength  to  talk 
with.  He  was  not  sure  that  they  were  doing  the  right 
thing  for  him.  The  doctor's  youth  now  presented 
itself  to  him  as  a  grievance.  .  .  .  He  would 
speak  to  Manlove  about  it. 

Next  morning  he  learned,  from  a  remark  carelessly 
made  by  the  nurse  to  Milly,  who  had  come  to  relieve 
her — they  stood  just  outside  the  door  of  his  room — 
that  the  trouble  was  apt  to  be  with  the  heart. 

He  did  not  mind  Milly's  being  in  the  room.  She 
shared  now  the  curious  shadow-like  quality  that  all 
these  people  were  beginning  to  have.  She  was  even 
quieter,  more  colorless,  than  the  nurse  or  the  doctor. 
Yet  he  knew  always  when  she  was  there.  On  the 
afternoon  of  the  second  day,  when  she  was  supplying 
the  place  of  the  nurse  for  a  time,  he  made  her  under 
stand  that  he  wanted  something  brought  to  him  from 
the  dressing-room.  It  was,  she  discovered,  a  small 
photograph  in  the  inner  pocket  of  the  coat  he  had 
been  wearing.  This  picture  Milly  had  not  seen  be 
fore,  but  she  instantly  recognized  it  as  a  girlish  por 
trait  of  the  same  blond  woman  who  figured  so  splen 
didly  in  the  large  photograph  lying  in  the  top  drawer 
of  Dan's  bureau,  and  apparently  undisturbed  in 
months,  except  by  Milly  herself.  She  laid  the  small 
photograph  in  Dan's  hand,  and  he  held  it  quietly,  not 
looking  at  it.  His  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  Milly's 

378 


THE   FORERUNNER 

haggard  face,  and  the  sight  seemed  to  trouble  him. 
He  frowned. 

"Are  you  a  little  better?"  she  cried  involuntarily. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  definitely  noticed  her; 
and  she  thought  it  indicated  some  sort  of  a  change. 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Am  I  very  .  .  . 
sick?"  he  asked  weakly. 

"Oh,  you  will  be  better  soon!"  she  cried,  clinching 
her  hands  to  keep  from  sobbing — for  physical  fatigue 
and  worry  had  weakened  her  self-control. 

"Tell  Manlove  .  .  .  better  get  another  doc 
tor  ...  !" 

Milly  glanced  at  the  door.  It  was  a  little  open, 
and  Graham  stood  outside.  She  could  hear  his  voice 
— he  was  talking  to  Manlove. 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  him.     We'll  get  one,"  she  said  eagerly. 

Then  she  gave  Dan  his  regular  dose  of  whiskey;  he 
took  it  passively,  with  a  total  lack  of  interest  in  the 
proceeding,  which  indicated  his  sceptical  feeling 
toward  the  young  doctor's  method. 

This  feeling  was  shared  by  those  responsible — so 
far  as  anyone  on  the  spot  was  responsible — for  Dan's 
welfare.  Graham  had  not  told  Manlove  that  this 
was  his  first  important  private  case;  but  he  had  said 
enough  to  show  his  own  misgivings  and  uncertainty, 
and  had  succeeded  in  inspiring  these  in  all  the  per 
sons  who  were  supposed  to  take  their  opinions  or  or 
ders  from  him. 

Manlove  and  Milly  consulted  constantly  together, 
and  in  spite  of  mutual  dislike  felt  a  certain  league  of 
sympathy  and  interest  as  against  the  two  professionals ; 
for  they  both,  in  different  ways,  loved  Dan.  It  had 

379 


THE   FORERUNNER 

been  an  humble  affection,  in  Manlove's  case  ex 
pressed  in  growing  admiration  and  deference;  in 
Milly's,  expressed  only  in  service,  in  a  minute  care  of 
Dan's  rooms  and  clothes,  in  a  passionate  solicitude 
about  his  linen,  his  food,  his  smallest  personal  be 
longings.  And  this  devotion  of  hers  had  not  gone 
unrecognized,  any  more  than  Manlove's  friendship. 
Dan  had  never  offered  Milly  money;  nor  had  he  of 
fered  to  kiss  her,  in  spite  of  occasion  and  the  occa 
sional  rosy  flash  of  feeling  in  her  face.  He  brought 
her  books  and  magazines  and  talked  with  her  about 
them.  And  Milly  cared  for  him  the  more  for  not  see 
ing  that  she  cared. 

From  Manlove,  nearly  a  year  ago,  she  had  learned 
that  Dan  was  married;  from  Manlove  also,  who  in 
the  first  months  of  Dan's  stay  had  seen  photographs 
of  Anna,  she  had  lately  had  the  assurance  that  the 
beautiful  blond  woman  of  the  picture  was  his  wife. 
She  had  built  up  a  whole  drama  round  what  facts  of 
his  married  life  she  had  been  able  to  glean.  The 
change  from  Dan,  as  she  knew  him  first,  when  he 
stopped  at  the  hotel  going  to  and  from  Mallory — al 
ways  in  high  spirits,  vigorous,  full  of  life  and  energy 
— to  the  man,  saddened  and  broken  in  spite  of  his 
business  success,  who  had  come  back  in  the  autumn, 
had  been  a  great  shock  and  stimulus  to  her  secret 
imaginings.  She  let  herself  think  sometimes  that  it 
might  make  a  little  place  for  her  in  his  life.  And 
meantime  her  main  pleasure  had  been  to  surround 
him  with  her  attentions  and  her  handiwork.  It  had 
been  a  keen  pleasure  to  her  to  feel  that  he  appreciated 
the  rocker  and  the  scrap-basket;  while  the  fact  that 
he  preferred  a  piece  of  newspaper  to  an  artistically 

380 


THE   FORERUNNER 

clipped  oblong  of  tissue  from  the  shaving-case  might 
indicate  that  he  thought  the  shaving-case  too  pretty 
to  be  used. 

But  now  all  these  pathetic  contributions  to  his 
comfort  had  been  swept  away.  The  curtains  and  the 
rug  adorned  the  nurse's  room,  and  the  rocking-chair 
was  reserved  for  her  use.  The  paintings,  the  scrap- 
basket,  and  calendar  had  been  cast  into  a  corner  of 
the  dressing-room.  And  in  the  bare  and  bleak  cham 
ber  of  sickness  ruled  a  doubtful  authority,  to  which 
Dan's  sufferings  mattered  personally  as  little  as 
Milly's  own. 

Manlove,  suddenly  saddled  with  responsibilities 
for  which  he  was  not  especially  capable,  fell  back  on 
Milly  for  advice.  It  was  certain  that  Dan's  illness 
would  last  "more  than  two  or  three  days";  yet  Milly 
had  to  make  Manlove  decide  to  telegraph  to  Josiah 
Purcell.  The  telegram  was  sent  on  the  morning  of 
the  third  day — a  little  before  Dan  had  asked  to  have 
another  doctor  summoned. 

That  was  the  next  thing  to  be  arranged.  Manlove 
made  the  proposition  to  Graham,  and  he  agreed,  with 
relief  more  obvious  than  anything  else  in  his  manner. 
And  he  added  that  if  they  were  going  to  send  as  far  as 
Cheyenne  and  get  the  best  man  there,  they'd  prob 
ably  better  have  some  oxygen  too,  though  he  person 
ally  didn't  think  much  of  that  treatment.  He  then 
mentioned  the  name  of  the  man  they  ought  to  try  to 
get,  and  wrote  a  telegram  stating  the  case  to  him. 

Then  Manlove  consulted  Milly  on  the  question  of 
communicating  with  Dan's  wife.  He  was  rather 
feebly  of  the  opinion  that  Anna  ought  to  know  that 

381 


THE   FORERUNNER 

her  husband  was  seriously  ill,  whether  there  was  as 
yet  definite  danger  or  no.  On  the  other  hand,  Dan 
had  indicated  his  wish  in  the  matter.  Manlove  had 
ventured  to  suggest  to  him  that  Anna  should  be  in 
formed  and  he  had  positively  forbidden  telegraphing 
her. 

"Long  journey  ...  no  use  .  .  .  I'll  be 
all  right  .  .  .  few  days/'  was  his  assurance. 

Manlove  had  of  course  guessed  on  Dan's  coming 
back,  alone  and  markedly  changed,  from  the  East, 
that  there  had  been  some  domestic  disaster.  During 
the  first  months  at  Mallory  he  had  talked  often  and 
happily  about  Anna,  and  his  plans  for  her;  since  his 
return  he  had  never  spoken  of  her,  except  once  to 
say  that  she  was  studying  music  in  New  York.  And 
if,  as  appeared,  they  had  practically  separated,  it  was 
easy  to  see  why  Dan  did  not  want  her  summoned, 
except  in  case  of  absolute  necessity. 

"Still,"  argued  Manlove,  "she  ought  to  know.  I 
don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  telegraph  her  that  he  is  ill 
and  that  I'll  telegraph  again  if  he's  worse." 

"He  said  not  to  telegraph,"  Milly  pointed  out  som 
brely.  In  her  bitter  jealousy  of  the  blond  wife  a 
large  element  of  contempt  found  nourishment.  It 
was  plain  that  the  wife  ought  to  be  here  now;  it  was 
plainly  her  own  fault  if  she  was  not. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  be  responsible  for  every 
thing!"  cried  Manlove.  "I'm  worried  to  death." 

Milly  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  isn't  my  busi 
ness,"  she  said  sullenly. 

"Then  I'll  ask  the  doctor,"  Manlove  said  in  des 
peration. 

The  doctor's  opinion  was  that  if  Devin  had  a  wife 
382 


THE  FORERUNNER 

she  certainly  ought  to  be  telegraphed  for.  If  she  had 
to  come  from  New  York,  haste  was  advisable.  He 
might  die  now  before  she  came. 

"What!  You  didn't  say  there  was  danger,"  cried 
Manlove. 

"I  didn't  say  there  wasn't.  I  asked  if  he  had  any 
relatives  within  reach.  There's  always  danger  for  a 
man  in  his  run-down  condition,  and  with  a  heart  in 
bad  shape.  There's  every  chance,  too,  that  the  other 
lung  may  be  affected  on  account  of  the  exposure." 

And  Graham  frowned,  with  a  worried  and  irritated 
look. 

"Can  I  see  him?"  whispered  Manlove,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  yes,  go  in — he  probably  won't  notice  you." 

But  as  Manlove  entered  on  tiptoe  and  went  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  Dan's  eyes  rested  on  him,  plainly 
recognized  him.  The  sick  man,  however,  made  no 
attempt  to  speak.  He  lay  very  quietly  on  his  pil 
lows,  with  the  ice-pack  close  against  his  laboring 
chest. 

"We've  sent  for  another  doctor,"  said  Manlove. 

Dan  nodded  and  closed  his  eyes.  Manlove's  voice 
seemed  to  him  to  come  from  some  place  infinitely  re 
mote — he  felt  too  weak  to  answer  him. 


383 


XVI. 

1VTICHOLAS,  returning  to  his  rooms  after  lunching 
•*••  alone  at  his  club,  in  a  sombre  and  unsocial 
mood,  was  surprised,  and  not  too  agreeably,  to  find 
his  father  waiting  for  him. 

"Well!  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  town.  I  hope 
you  haven't  been  waiting  long,"  he  cried,  going  to 
shake  hands,  with  his  nervous,  cordial  grip. 

"Oh,  no,  half  an  hour,"  Mr.  Purcell  replied  dryly. 
"I  came  up  this  morning  on  business.  Can  you  give 
me  Mrs.  Devin's  address?" 

"Mrs.  Devin's?  Yes,  I  can  give  it  to  you."  Nicho 
las  pushed  up  a  chair  and  sat  down,  meeting  gravely 
the  old  man's  keen  glance.  "Do  you  want  to  see 
her?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  right  away." 

Nicholas  took  out  a  card  and  a  pencil  and  wrote 
down  the  address. 

"But  you  won't  find  her  in  now/'  he  said.  "She's 
lunching  out  at  Fairmont  to-day  and  won't  be  back 
till  late.  They're  rehearsing  some  tableaux  and 
things,  you  know,  for  New  Year's " 

"Tableaux!  I  should  think  she  might  be  thinking 
about  something  else  just  now.  Look  here,  d'you 
know  anything  about  this?"  He  took  out  his  pocket- 
book  and  began  searching  impatiently  among  the 
papers  with  which  it  was  stuffed.  "According  to  a 
telegram  I  got  this  morning,  Devin's  down  with 
pneumonia,  confound  him!  Here  it  is.  It  must 

384 


THE   FORERUNNER 

have  got  to  Marshbrook  just  as  I  left.     They  tele 
graphed  it  on  to  the  office  here.     Well?" 

"I'm  positive  she  doesn't  know  anything  about  it. 
I  saw  her  this  morning.  I  know  she  had  no  word  of 
it  up  to  twelve  o'clock." 

And  Nicholas  folded  up  the  telegram,  and  unfolded 
it  and  read  it  again. 

"Devin  ill  pneumonia  unable  transact  business  fort 
night  anyway  his  orders  telegraph  you.  Manlove." 

"Who's  Manlove?"  he  asked  mechanically. 

"Oh,  he's  a  fool  of  a  man  out  there  in  the  mines. 
If  this  is  true,  I've  got  to  turn  right  round  and  go 
back  out  there.  But  I  don't  feel  like  doing  it  without 
some  further  word.  That  Manlove's  like  a  chicken 
with  its  head  cut  off — I  don't  take  what  he  says.  I've 
telegraphed  back  to  ask  for  the  doctor's  report.  But 
I  thought  most  likely  his  wife  would  know  more  about 
it.  When's  she  coming  back,  did  you  say?" 

"Probably  on  the  six- thirty  train — it  gets  in  at 
six- thirty,  I  mean." 

"And  no  word  up  to  noon,  you  said?  Well,  that 
seems  queer.  This  telegram  had  time  to  go  to  Boston 
and  be  sent  up  here — I  should  think  they'd  telegraph 
her  as  soon  as  they  would  me.  Hey?" 

"Really,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

Josiah  Purcell  looked  over  his  spectacles  at  his  son 
with  a  sarcastic  and  irritated  expression.  He  had 
been  very  much  disturbed  by  the  telegram,  and  now 
he  thought  that  Nicholas  was  disturbed  by  it  and 
was  trying  to  conceal  the  fact. 

"I  thought  you  might  know.  You  and  Margaret 
seem  to  be  pretty  thick  with  her,"  he  said  brusquely, 
"I  suppose  I  might  telephone  out  to  Fairmont," 

385 


THE   FORERUNNER 

"No,  certainly  not.  It  would  alarm  her  and  it 
would  be  absolutely  no  use.  I'm  perfectly  certain 
that  she  knows  nothing." 

"Well,  it's  queer.  Very  likely  the  telegram  is  at 
her  house  now.  I  should  think  she  ought  to  come 
back." 

Nicholas  looked  at  his  watch.  "It's  nearly  three 
now.  She  couldn't  get  here  anyway  before  five. 
What's  the  use  of  making  the  thing  worse  for  her? 
I'll  go  up  and  meet  the  trains  after  five,  and  go  to  the 
house  with  her;  and  if  there's  any  news  I'll  telephone 
to  you." 

"Well,  you  telephone  me  anyway  when  she  gets 
back.  I  want  to  see  her.  I'll  wait  here  after  half- 
past  five,  it's  convenient  to  her  address.  I'm  going 
back  to  the  office  now  to  straighten  up  things,  in  case 
I  have  to  go.  Confound  it,  Nicholas,  I  wish  you  had 
some  idea  of  business,  you  might  take  this  off  my 
hands." 

"Yes — it's  a  pity,"  said  Nicholas.  "Here,  after 
half -past  five,  then." 

It  was  only  after  the  whir  of  the  descending  ele 
vator  had  announced  his  father's  departure  that  he 
realized  he  should  have  kept  the  telegram  for  Anna. 

He  really  was  much  more  disturbed  than  he  had 
been  willing  to  show;  mainly  because  of  the  effect 
on  Anna  this  news  would  have.  He  could  not  be 
sure  that,  in  spite  of  what  he  had  said,  his  father 
would  not  telephone  to  Fairmont.  In  any  case  he 
foresaw  a  shock,  to  which  she  would  be  especially 
susceptible  hi  the  present  state  of  her  nerves. 

When  he  had  parted  from  her  that  morning  at  the 
station — after,  it  must  be  said,  a  quarrel  intense  if 

386 


THE  FORERUNNER 

not  violent — he  had  thought  her  almost  hysterical. 
And  it  was  the  distress  of  seeing  her  so  unhappily 
moved,  and  of  being  unable  at  the  same  time  to  move 
her  an  inch  toward  the  action  he  wanted  her  to  take, 
that  had  made  him  leave  her  there,  at  the  last  mo 
ment,  though  he  also  was  expected  at  Fairmont.  The 
quarrel  was  an  old  one — nearly  a  month  old — and 
they  had  been  at  it  almost  every  day.  What  Nicho 
las  wanted  was  that  she  should  write  the  decisive  let 
ter  which  would  define  their  situation  and  help  to 
clear  it  up;  but  this  letter  to  her  husband  Anna  had 
so  far  been  perfectly  unwilling  or  unable  to  write,  and 
she  could  not  give  any  satisfactory  reason  for  the  de 
lay.  She  admitted  that  it  was  only  a  delay,  that  the 
thing  must  be  done,  and  yet  she  would  not  do  it.  As 
for  the  temporizing  note  she  finally  had  written,  sim 
ply  putting  off  the  necessary  move  for  an  indefinite 
time,  Nicholas  had  been  angry  and  disgusted  to  learn 
of  it.  Their  disagreement  then  had  reached  an  acute 
stage.  For  the  first  time  Nicholas  had  given  voice 
to  his  suspicions.  He  taxed  Anna  with  not  knowing 
her  own  mind,  not  being  willing  or  able  to  live  up  to 
what  she  had  promised  him;  and  he  told  her  that  he 
was  going  abroad  and  that  he  would  never  see  her 
again  until  she  was  free. 

His  characteristic  self-possession,  his  quiet,  un- 
emphatic  manner,  helped  him  to  deliver  this  ultima 
tum  with  a  coolness  and  conviction  that  he  by  no 
means  felt.  Anna  had  believed  him.  It  was  then 
that  she  came  near  breaking  down ;  but  that  she  could 
still  control  herself  was  evident  in  the  fact  that  she 
went  on  without  him  and  kept  her  engagement  at 
Fairmont. 

387 


THE  FORERUNNER 

She  did  not  come  back  either  until  the  half-past- 
six  train,  and  Nicholas,  who  had  spent  an  hour  and 
a  half  in  or  near  the  station,  since  there  were  three 
other  trains  that  she  might  have  taken,  was  irritated 
with  her  until  he  remembered  his  errand.  He  was 
among  the  crowd  of  people  waiting  at  the  train-gate; 
the  train  was  unusually  crowded,  and  Anna  passed 
without  seeing  him.  Indeed,  she  seemed  absorbed 
in  her  own  thoughts.  She  walked  slowly,  with  down 
cast  eyes,  and  she  looked  pale  and  tired.  All  the 
more  evident  was  her  blush  and  startled  look  when 
Nicholas  spoke  to  her. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  expect  you,"  she  said,  as  grave 
as  he. 

"No,  I  didn't  expect  to  come.  Something  hap 
pened.  It  concerns  you,  but  it's  nothing  very  alarm 
ing.  Here — I'll  tell  you  in  the  cab." 

But  they  had  to  wait  a  moment  for  a  cab.  "Tell 
me/'  she  said  faintly. 

"Well,  it's  a  telegram  from  a  man  named  Manlove 
— an  irresponsible  kind  of  person,  my  father  says — 
that  Devin  is  ill,  laid  up  for  a  fortnight  or  so.  I 
thought  you'd  better  know  it  at  once,  though  very 
likely " 

"111?  I  hadn't  heard.  .  .  .  Where  is  the  tele 
gram?" 

"My  father  has  it.  It  was  sent  to  him  at  Marsh- 
brook,  on  account  of  the  business  affairs,  you  see. 
Very  likely  it's  nothing  at  all  serious — this  man  Man- 
love  seems  to  be  easily  frightened " 

"But  what  is  it?  I  suppose  there  will  be  a  telegram 
at  the  house  .  .  ." 

"So  I  thought.  My  father  is  anxious,  too,  to  know 
388 


THE   FORERUNNER 

if  there  is  any  further  word.  He  doesn't  believe 
much  in  Manlove — thinks  he's  easily  scared.  If  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  go  with  you." 

"Yes,  yes,  do."  The  cab  drove  up  here,  and  they 
got  in.  "But  you  haven't  told  me  what  is  the  mat 
ter?  Didn't  he  say?" 

"The  telegram  said  pneumonia,  but " 

"Pneumonia!    But  that  is    ...    serious    .    .    ." 

"Oh,  not  necessarily,  in  the  case  of  a  strong  man 
—not  at  all  dangerous,  I  should  think.  Besides, 
we  don't  know  that  it  is  pneumonia.  You  would 
have  heard  before,  you  know,  if  he'd  been  very  ill." 

Anna  was  silent — stunned  and  bewildered.  She 
could  not  believe  that  Dan  was  very  ill,  but  for  a  rea 
son  not  known  to  Nicholas.  She  had  at  that  mo 
ment  in  her  purse  Dan's  telegram  of  the  day  before, 
and  she  now  went  over  every  word  of  it  in  her  mind. 
"Four  letter  received  all  going  well  shall  get  away  and 
see  you  soon.  Write  me.  Yours,  Dan." 

There  was  nothing  in  that  to  indicate  illness.  On 
the  contrary,  it  had  startled  her  by  its  definite  buoy 
ancy  and  cheerfulness.  It  was  like  Dan  as  he  had 
been  of  old — even  to  the  exuberance  of  expression 
and  unnecessary  expense.  And  that  "Yours,  Dan" 
— how  could  she  explain  that  to  Nicholas  or  even  to 
herself?  He  had  misunderstood  her  letter,  that  she 
saw,  and  so  made  things  ten  times  more  difficult  for 
her. 

She  shrank  into  her  corner  and  looked  at  the 
blurred  window-pane,  where  soft  blots  of  snow  clung 
and  melted.  The  first  heavy  storm  of  the  winter  was 
clogging  the  city  ways.  In  twenty-four  hours  there 
had  been  rain,  sleet,  nearly  a  foot  of  snow,  and  now 

389 


THE  FORERUNNER 

rain  seemed  probable  again.  The  cab  was  twice  its 
usual  time  in  reaching  the  house,  but  neither  Anna 
nor  Nicholas  spoke  again.  The  walk  before  the  house 
had  been  partly  cleared;  Anna  trailed  her  long  skirts 
in  the  wet  snow  as  she  ran  up  the  steps  and  rang,  too 
much  in  haste  to  use  her  key. 

"Is  there  a  telegram  for  me?"  she  demanded  of  the 
maid,  going  on  to  her  room. 

The  negative  answer  did  not  convince  her.  She 
looked  the  room  over  thoroughly  and  even  turned 
over  the  letters  on  the  hall- table. 

"Are  you  sure  nothing  has  come  for  me?  Please 
ask  Miss  Thaw.  It  is  very  important." 

Nicholas  had  now  come  in.  When  Miss  Thaw  ap 
peared  in  person  and  it  seemed  clear  that  no  telegram 
had  come  for  Anna,  he  offered  to  go  to  the  nearest 
station  and  inquire;  and  Anna  begged  him  also  to 
send  a  messenger  to  his  father  to  ask  for  the  telegram 
he  had  received. 

When  Nicholas  came  back,  covered  with  sticky 
snow-flakes,  he  had  a  theory  in  place  of  news. 

"No  doubt  it's  this  way.  He's  not  sick  enough  to 
want  to  alarm  you.  He  telegraphed  my  father  le- 
cause  there  is  a  lot  of  business  on  hand,  in  connection 
with  the  road,  that  someone  must  manage  directly. 
My  father  expects  to  have  to  start  out  there  to-mor 
row,  unless  some  different  news  should  come.  But 
I  can  easily  see  that  a  man  might  be  confined  to  the 
house  and  unable  to  do  active  business,  and  yet  not 
be  at  all  dangerously  ill." 

"But  Manlove  sent  the  telegram,  not  Dan.  He 
must  be  ill — very  ill.  He  wouldn't  give  up  like  that 
if  he  wasn't.  And  pneumonia  always  comes  very 

390 


THE   FORERUNNER 

suddenly,  doesn't  it?  Why  haven't  they  telegraphed 
me?" 

She  spoke  with  a  stress  of  feeling  that  was  like 
anger,  totally  disregarding  his  explanation.  Her 
agitation  was  painful  to  see.  She  had  thrown  off  her 
wrap,  but  would  not  sit  down,  and  Nicholas  stood 
beside  her  in  his  snow-spotted  coat,  holding  his  hat, 
from  which,  in  the  warmth  of  the  room,  melted  a 
trickle  of  water. 

"I  think  my  suggestion  is  probably  near  the  truth," 
he  said. 

"Will  you  call  a  messenger?  I  want  to  send  a  tele 
gram." 

"Yes,  or  I'll  take  it— that's  quicker." 

She  threw  him  a  troubled  look  of  thanks,  sat  down 
at  the  table  and  wrote  a  message  to  Manlove:  "Wire 
immediately  Dan's  condition.  Leave  to-night  un 
less  better  news,"  signing  her  full  name  and  address. 

"I  can  leave  to-night,  can't  I?  I'm  sure  there's 
a  midnight  train  to  the  West.  And  I  can  get  the 
answer  to  this  in  time?" 

"That  depends  on  conditions  out  there.  If  the 
message  is  delivered  promptly  and  he  replies  at  once 
you  ought  to  get  it  in  an  hour  or  so,  I  should  think. 
I'll  see  that  it's  sent  in  rush  time  and  that  any  reply 
is  delivered  here  at  once.  And  I'll  find  out  about 
trains." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you.     .     .     ." 

Her  relief  at  this  quick  and  definite  action  was 
obvious.  She  began  to  be  more  composed,  and  her 
look  at  Nicholas  said  that  she  clearly  perceived  that 
it  was  he  who  was  helping  her,  and  that  she  had  a 
right  to  his  help.  But  continued  action  was  neces- 

391 


THE  FORERUNNER 

sary  to  her.  When  he  had  gone,  with  a  quick  nod 
and  grave  glance  at  her,  she  rang  and  ordered  up  her 
trunk. 

In  the  confusion  of  her  thoughts  only  one  thing 
was  plain  to  her :  if  Dan  was  really  ill  she  must  go  to 
him.  He  could  not  be  left  in  that  rough  place  to  the 
care  of  strangers.  In  decency  he  was  entitled  to  her 
care.  Her  response  to  that  primitive  claim  of  his 
was  as  instinctive,  as  strong,  as  had  been  her  re 
luctance  to  follow  out  the  course  determined  by  her 
own  act,  and  so  to  separate  herself  entirely  from 
him.  A  vague  but  powerful  fear  of  the  situation 
oppressed  her.  The  last  thing  in  the  world  she 
wanted  was  that  Dan  should  suffer.  While  he  suf 
fered  she  felt  guilty.  For  the  moment  she  was  pas 
sionately  thankful  that  she  had  not  written  him  as 
Nicholas  had  been  urging  her  to  write.  Now  at  least 
she  could  go  to  him  and  do  something  for  him,  even 
though  he  had  not  asked  her  to  come.  She  went 
vigorously  to  work  at  her  packing. 

Mr.  Purcell  was  announced,  and  Anna,  expecting 
to  see  Nicholas,  turned  with  her  arms  full  of  clothes, 
to  find  a  stranger  on  her  threshold.  She  dropped  her 
burden  on  a  chair,  and  went  forward  nervously  to 
greet  the  little  old  man. 

"I  came  myself  instead  of  sending  the  telegram/' 
he  said,  shaking  hands  with  her  dryly,  '  'because  I  was 
anxious  to  see  you.  The  messenger  is  in  the  hall. 
He  says  he  was  told  to  come  back." 

"Sit  down,  please,"  Anna  murmured,  looking  for 
an  unencumbered  chair,  "and  will  you  please  let  me 
see  the  telegram?" 

He  took  out  the  large  pocket-book  with  his  precise 
392 


THE  FORERUNNER 

and  methodical  air,  found  the  yellow  paper  and 
handed  it  to  her;  and  he  observed  her  keenly  as  she 
stood  under  the  gas-jet  and  read  it.  Her  beauty 
rather  floored  the  old  man.  In  her  black  dress  and 
the  large  black  hat  which  she  had  forgotten  to  take  off, 
she  looked  majestic,  imposing;  the  stress  of  anxiety 
and  exertion  had  flushed  her  face,  made  it  expressive, 
dazzling. 

"I  judge  you've  had  no  further  word/'  said  Josiah 
Purcell,  as  she  continued  still  to  hold  the  telegram 
and  look  at  it. 

"No,  nothing/'  Anna  said,  and  she  felt  humiliated 
in  having  to  say  it.  It  added  to  her  misery  that  this 
sharp  old  man  seemed  to  guess  her  position. 

"Well,  I  wired  right  out  there  when  I  got  this  at 
one  o'clock  for  further  news.  I  asked  for  the  doctor's 
opinion.  I  don't  trust  that  fellow  Manlove  to  know 
pneumonia  from  a  cold  in  the  head.  He's  an  idiot. 
He  sent  that  telegram  this  morning,  but  it  don't  say 
how  long  he's  been  sick  or  how  serious  it  is.  It's 
mighty  sudden.  When  I  left  him  ten  days  ago  he 
was  as  well  as  usual,  and  he's  been  writing  me  about 
every  day  since.  You  hadn't  heard  of  his  being  sick?" 

"No,  I  had  a  telegram  from  him  from  Cheyenne 
a  week  ago,  but  he  hasn't  said  anything  about  his 
health.  I've  telegraphed  too.  I  shall  leave  to-night, 
unless  I  hear  he  is  better,"  and  Anna  now  looked  the 
old  man  full  in  the  face,  proudly  returning  his  specula 
tive  glance.  "If  your  answer  comes  first,  I  hope  you 
will  let  me  see  it." 

"Of  course — ought  to  have  had  it  before  now,"  he 
muttered.  "I  see  you're  packing.  If  I  can  do  any 
thing  to  help  you  .  .  ." 


THE  FORERUNNER 

"Oh,  thank  you,  no — there's  nothing  to  do  now, 
except  just  wait." 

"Well,  I'll  be  getting  back.  I'm  at  my  son's  rooms. 
If  you  should  hear  anything,  will  you  send  round 
there?  I'll  give  you  the  address " 

"Oh,  don't  trouble,  I  know  it." 

"Ah,  all  right,  then.  By  the  way,  have  you  any 
idea  where  he  is — Nicholas?  He  was  to  come  back 
there." 

"Yes,  he's  gone  to  send  the  telegram  for  me.  He'll 
be  back  soon.  Will  you  wait?" 

"No,  thanks,  I'll  go  on.  But  will  you  tell  him, 
please,  that  I'd  like  to  see  him  when  he's  at  lib 
erty?" 

With  evident  irritation  the  old  man  made  her  a 
stiff  bow,  and  backed  toward  the  door.  But  there 
he  stopped  and  added,  "It's  settled,  then,  that  we 
exchange  news?  Whichever  hears  first  will  send  to 
the  other.  And  if  I  can  do  anything  to  help  you  get 
off  I  hope  you  will  call  upon  me." 

Anna  had  kept  the  telegram,  folding  it  up  small  in 
the  palm  of  her  hand;  and  this  was  one  reason  for 
Josiah  Purcell's  irritation.  He  had  not  liked  to  ask 
for  its  return;  but  it  was  a  business  paper,  and  his 
habit  was  to  keep  all  business  papers  in  due  order. 
Secondly,  he  was  angry  at  the  failure  of  Nicholas  to 
keep  his  appointment.  And  third,  the  friendship  or 
intimacy  which  appeared  to  exist  between  his  son 
and  Devin's  wife  disturbed  him.  He  disapproved,  on 
theory  and  hearsay,  of  Devin's  wife.  He  strongly 
disapproved  any  intimacy  between  married  women 
and  young  men.  Puritan  to  'the  backbone,  any 
hint  of  secrecy  or  irregularity,  any  departure  from 

394 


THE   FORERUNNER 

the  straight  and  narrow  ways  of  life,  roused  his  anger 
and  contempt. 

The  present  result  of  all  these  feelings  was  to  in 
tensify  his  natural  brusqueness  of  manner,  and  to 
produce  in  Anna  a  certain  terror  of  him.  She  was 
heartily  relieved  at  his  departure,  and  now  perceived 
another  reason  for  starting  if  she  was  to  go  that  night. 
For  if  she  waited  till  the  morrow  she  would  no  doubt 
have  to  make  the  long  journey  in  his  company.  But, 
indeed,  she  had  already  practically  decided  to  go  by 
the  first  train,  with  or  without  further  news.  The 
telegram,  which  she  now  unfolded  and  read  again, 
left  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  Dan  was  ill  enough  to 
need  her.  She  had  no  definite  mental  picture  of  his 
surroundings,  but  imagined  them  rather  worse  than 
they  were;  and  it  was  this  uncertainty  and  vague 
ness  about  the  whole  thing  that  most  alarmed  her. 

She  was  about  to  return  to  her  packing  when  the 
messenger  in  the  hall  reminded  her  that  he  was  wait 
ing;  and  she  paid  and  dismissed  him.  And  this  re 
minded  her  that  she  had  not  enough  money  in  the 
house  for  her  journey.  She  would  have  to  ask  Nicho 
las  to  lend  her  some. 

How  had  such  a  man  as  old  Mr.  Purcell  managed 
to  have  a  son  like  Nicholas?  .  .  .  Nicholas  was 
no  more  out  of  her  mind  now  than  he  had  been  at  any 
time  for  two  months  past.  The  thought  of  him  was 
a  background  to  whatever  else  she  might  for  the 
moment  be  thinking  of;  it  was  like  the  air  itself,  sur 
rounding  and  penetrating  everything.  So  now,  while 
she  was  thinking  about  Dan,  the  telegram,  her  train, 
the  journey  before  her,  the  question  about  Nicholas 
and  his  father  suggested  itself,  and  almost  instantly, 

395 


THE  FORERUNNER    . 

by  way  of  answer,  she  realized  that  Nicholas  was 
in  some  ways  like  his  father.  She  had  been  seeing  new 
aspects  of  him  lately.  At  bottom  he  was  Puritan  too, 
severe  and  strict  in  observance  of  the  things  that 
mattered  to  him,  and  in  the  account  he  required 
from  her.  His  was  a  different  code  from  his  father's, 
but  Anna  was  not  sure  it  was  an  easier  one. 

She  thought  of  him  and  of  Dan,  and  went  on  pack 
ing,  without  much  regard  to  the  way  she  was  putting 
things  in;  and  she  had  nearly  finished  when  Nicholas 
returned.  He  brought  the  time-table,  showing  the 
connections  of  the  midnight  train,  and  Anna  with 
renewed  agitation  told  him  of  his  father's  visit  and 
showed  him  the  telegram. 

"Yes,  I've  seen  it,"  he  reminded  her.  'There's 
nothing  new?  Then  don't  you  think  we'd  better 
have  some  dinner?" 

"I'd  forgotten.  Will  you  stay  here?  Let's  go 
right  down,  then,  so  as  to  be  ready  if  anything 
comes." 

While  Nicholas  took  off  his  wet  overcoat,  she  dis 
appeared  behind  the  screen,  to  wash  her  hands  and 
put  her  hat  straight.  Then  they  went  down  to  the 
dining-room  in  the  basement,  which  was  already  full 
of  people,  nearly  through  their  dinner.  There  was 
a  long  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  small  ones 
in  the  corners,  where  the  less  social  sat.  Anna  had 
one  of  these  small  tables.  Their  dinner,  when  it 
came,  was  bad;  the  soup  cold,  the  fish  flavorless  and 
the  roast  tough ;  while  the  hurried  negro  waiter  made 
a  clatter  with  the  dishes,  and  a  nerve-racking  buzz  of 
talk  filled  the  room.  But  they  were  both  indifferent 
enough  to  these  minor  ills.  Anna  could  not  eat,  and 

396 


THE   FORERUNNER 

made  no  effort  to  talk.  Her  face  was  painfully 
flushed,  and  her  growing  nervousness  was  apparent. 

"I  shall  go  anyway  to-night,  whether  I  hear  or 
not/'  she  said  once,  and  when  Nicholas  made  no  im 
mediate  comment,  she  looked  at  him  almost  angrily. 
' 'Don't  you  see  I  must  go?"  she  demanded. 

"I  can't  tell.  You  must  do  as  you  think  best/'  he 
said  coldly.  The  nervous  strain  was  telling  on  him, 
too — the  feeling  of  things  unsaid  between  them. 
"But,"  he  added  after  a  moment,  "I  don't  think  you 
should  start  without  some  confirmation — there  may 
be  a  mistake." 

She  looked  at  him  resentfully,  appealingly,  but 
was  silent.  They  hurried  through  the  dessert  and 
left  before  the  coffee  came ;  and  as  Anna  got  to  the  top 
of  the  stairs  she  saw  another  messenger  in  the  hall, 
the  maid  just  taking  from  him  an  envelope. 

"For  me?"  cried  Anna,  and  she  snatched  it  away 
and  went  into  her  room.  The  envelope  was  addressed 
by  Josiah  Purcell,  and  contained  a  brief  note  and  a 
telegram  to  him  signed  by  the  doctor: 

"Serious  case  pneumonia — vitality  low — heart  weak 
— other  lung  may  be  affected — have  called  consultant 
from  Cheyenne." 

Anna  dropped  the  paper  with  a  cry  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"He  is  going  to  die!"  she  said  loudly. 

Nicholas  was  reading  the  telegram.  He  went  and 
shut  the  door — there  were  several  people  in  the  hall. 

"Hush,  it  is  not  as  bad  as  that.  You  must  control 
yourself,"  he  said  sharply.  "He's  a  young  man,  and 
strong — I  don't  think  it  at  all  likely  that  he'll  die.  But 
if  you're  going  to  do  any  good  you  can't  break  down 

397 


THE   FORERUNNER 

now.  You  have  a  long  journey  before  you,  yet  you 
didn't  eat  your  dinner,  and  now  you're  hysterical." 

"No — no,  I'm  all  right  now,''  she  murmured. 
*I'm  not  going  to  break  down." 

And  with  bright  spots  burning  in  her  cheeks,  and 
aimless,  trembling  hands,  she  took  up  a  heap  of  small 
articles  from  the  table  and  threw  them  into  her  trunk. 

Nicholas  regarded  her  steadily  for  some  moments, 
then  he  went  over  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  "My 
poor  girl,  don't  look  so,  you  can't  help  this,"  he  said. 

She  half  repulsed  him,  with  a  frightened  look;  but 
at  the  gentleness  of  his  touch  and  tone  she  melted, 
gave  way  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  I  am  wicked,  he  will  die!"  she  cried,  clinging 
to  Nicholas.  "I  know  he  will  die,  and  I  deserve 
it.  .  ." 

"Hush,  Anna — hush,  my  dear — this  changes  noth 
ing.  We  are  as  we  were  before.  How  are  you 
wicked,  how  is  it  your  fault?  Neither  of  us  wanted 
him  to  be  ill."  And  Nicholas  held  her  close  and 
kissed  her. 

"No,  we  did  not  want  it.  But — I  can't  help  feeling 
so.  If  it  is  a  punishment  for  me,  I  deserve  it.  And 
yet  I  couldn't  help  it — I  couldn't  help  loving.  .  .  . 
But  I  shall  never  be  happy  .  .  .  never,  never! 
I  shall  always  feel  guilty.  .  .  .  Why  must  he 
die?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  he  is  dying,  you  know  it. 
He  will  never  know  it  now  or  forgive  me  .  .  . 
and  I  am  afraid  .  .  ." 

She  bowed  herself  over  his  supporting  arm  in  a 
paroxysm  of  tears  and  wild  sobbing.  And  Nicholas 
with  stony  composure  held  her  until  the  violence  of 
her  outburst  had  spent  itself.  Slowly  she  grew  quiet, 

398 


THE   FORERUNNER 

except  for  a  deep  sob  at  intervals.  Nicholas  put  her 
into  a  chair  and  knelt  beside  her.  She  held  her  hand 
kerchief  to  her  blurred  face. 

"Let  me  go  with  you/'  he  said. 

"No." 

Her  voice  sounded  exhausted,  but  expressed  a 
definite  meaning. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  sounds  of  the  house 
again  became  audible — the  door-bell,  talking  in  the 
hall,  a  piano  overhead.  And  outside  the  street- 
cleaners  were  noisily  at  work  clearing  away  the  snow. 
The  clank  of  their  shovels  on  the  cobble-stones  of  the 
street  sounded  in  chorus. 

After  this  they  talked  no  more,  except  about  the 
business  of  the  journey.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  it 
yet  to  be  done — the  packing  to  be  finished,  the  car 
riage  to  be  ordered,  the  ticket  and  sleeping-car  ac 
commodation  to  be  bought.  Anna  had  to  change  her 
dress,  to  eat  something,  to  pay  her  bill.  There  were 
telephone  messages  back  and  forth  between  Nicholas 
and  his  father.  A  telegram  came  for  Anna  from 
Manlove  with  no  further  news,  simply  repeating  the 
doctor's  report;  and  she  telegraphed  back  that  she 
was  starting. 

Nicholas  suffered  at  letting  her  go  alone,  at  fore 
seeing  the  journey  before  her.  He  did  all  he  could 
to  lessen  the  suspense,  which  was  its  worst  feature; 
arranging  with  Manlove  that  telegrams  should  reach 
her  at  various  points  on  the  way.  He  realized  that 
he  could  not  at  all  urge  himself  on  her  as  a  mitigation 
of  her  discomforts.  She  must  go  alone.  But  he  got 
some  consolation  from  the  fact  that  his  father  would 
follow  only  twelve  hours  behind  her,  and  would 

399 


THE   FORERUNNER 

naturally  manage  the  practical  part  of  the  situation 
out  there,  besides  keeping  him,  Nicholas,  informed 
of  it. 

All  else  that  was  not  wholly  saddening  and  trou 
bling  to  him  in  this  sudden  occurrence,  was  the  con 
viction,  strengthened  by  the  manner  of  Anna's  part 
ing  from  him,  that — as  he  had  said  to  her — it  changed 
nothing,  in  their  relations  to  one  another.  Anna 
would  be  his,  whatever  happened  to  Devin.  He 
was  sure  of  that;  and  it  seemed  to  him  right,  because 
inevitable  that  it  should  be  so;  and  at  the  same  time 
life  seemed  to  him  harsh  and  sad. 


400 


XVII. 

TP\  AN  knew  that  she  was  coming.  On  the  morning 
*-^  of  the  fourth  day  of  his  illness  Manlove  read 
him  her  telegrams,  along  with  Josiah  Purcell's;  and 
she  had  then  been  nearly  twelve  hours  on  the  way, 
while  Purcell  was  just  starting. 

Dan  was  still  perfectly  conscious  at  moments  when 
something  roused  him.  Now  he  realized  perfectly 
the  distance  Anna  had  yet  to  travel,  the  time  that 
must  elapse  before  she  could  reach  him,  and  his  own 
growing  weakness.  And  he  said  to  Manlove,  in  a 
gasping  whisper,  "Do  the  best— you  can— for  me." 

"Yes,  Dan.  The  doctor  from  Cheyenne  will  be 
here  to-night.  Don't  worry,  old  man — we'll  pull  you 
through." 

And  Manlove  went  precipitately  out  of  the  room. 
He  was  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  Dan's  suffering, 
the  sound  of  his  shallow  breathing  and  of  the  cough 
that  shook  him  in  a  vain  effort  to  relieve  the  over 
burdened  lung;  and  still  more  the  thought  that  per 
haps  the  right  thing  was  not  being  done  for  Dan  tor 
mented  him.  He  felt,  as  never  before,  the  isolation 
of  this  place,  where  not  even  the  bare  necessaries 
for  the  case  were  to  be  procured;  the  length  of  time 
that  it  was  taking  the  new  doctor  to  reach  them  might 
turn  the  scale  against  Dan.  The  nervousness  of 
Graham  had  by  now  infected  them  all  with  a  kind 
of  panic. 

401 


THE  FORERUNNER 

Even  Dan  was  troubled  by  it.  But  always  after 
waking  to  full  consciousness  of  the  situation  he  sank 
back  again,  passive — the  increasing  fever  and  weak 
ness  clouding  his  brain,  veiling  and  softening  familiar 
outlines. 

The  ideas  that  occurred  to  him  had  then  the  qual 
ity  of  dreams — the  transparency,  the  inconsequence 
— and  at  the  same  time  they  reflected  all  the  feeling 
he  was  capable  of.  The  weight  of  anxiety  had  not 
yet  slipped  off  his  shoulders;  he  could  not  forget  that 
he  had  much  yet  to  do.  There  was  Anna  .  .  . 
there  was  the  road  ...  the  road  must  be  built, 
and  Anna  .  .  .  was  coming  back  to  him.  He 
must  see  her  ...  he  must  fight  off  the  pain 
and  the  drowsiness  till  she  came.  And  she  was  com 
ing  as  fast  as  the  train  could  bring  her,  but  still  how 
slowly. 

So  many  revolutions  of  the  iron  wheels  on  the  rails 
.  .  .  pounding,  pounding,  his  heart  kept  time  to 
the  hard,  quick  beat  .  .  .  those  rails,  for  which 
the  contract  had  just  been  closed,  would  cost  more 
than  he  had  expected  .  .  .  but  still,  if  the  road 
could  be  finished  in  time  .  .  .  if  he  could  only 
get  out  and  make  them  work  ...  it  would 
shorten  the  journey  by  six  hours.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  train 
bearing  Anna,  the  huge  engine  running  over  the  rails 
that  he  had  laid  .  .  .  with  its  head-light  glaring 
wide,  its  great  bell  clanging  .  .  .  was  rushing 
down  upon  him,  was  crushing  him,  crushing  his  chest 
.  .  .  and  he  cried  out,  choking,  and  struggled  up 
on  his  pillows. 

The  nurse  ran  to  him,  supported  him  in  her  arms, 
402 


THE   FORERUNNER 

and  laid  him  down  again,  coughing  and  gasping  for 
breath.  Then  it  seemed  that  his  heart  was  dissolving 
within  him;  a  deadly  faintness  overcame  him;  he 
lost  consciousness. 

At  this,  the  overtasked  heart's  first  grave  sign  of 
collapse,  alarm  radiated  from  the  sick-room  through 
the  whole  place.  A  second  urgent  telegram  was  sent 
to  make  sure  that  the  Cheyenne  doctor  and  the  oxygen 
apparatus  came  by  the  first  train. 

Dan  rallied  and  became  hazily  conscious  of  heat  at 
his  hands  and  feet,  of  more  frequent  doses  of  medicine, 
and  of  a  weakness  that  soon  lost  itself  again  in  sleep. 
But  with  the  first  administration  of  the  oxygen  that 
night  he  came  quite  back  to  himself.  The  physical 
relief  was  immediate  and  marked;  and  instantly  his 
mind  took  up  again  the  questions  that  had  preoc 
cupied  it — his  hopes  and  fears  revived. 

He  insisted  on  talking,  gave  directions  to  Manlove 
to  write  to  his  mother — "Mrs.  Martha  Devin,  Shat- 
tuck,  Wisconsin."  "I've  only  written  once  since  I 
came  back,"  he  whispered  regretfully.  "Tell  her  I'll 
write  as  soon  as  I'm  better."  Then  he  asked  that 
his  lawyer  in  the  town  should  be  sent  for  next  day  so 
that  he  might  make  his  will — another  omission  for 
which  he  was  remorseful.  And  insurance — that  was 
still  another  thing  that  he  had  meant  to  see  to — cer 
tainly,  as  soon  as  he  was  well  again  he  would  insure 
his  life. 

Manlove  promised  what  was  asked  of  him,  with 
new  alarm,  wondering  if  Dan  thought  he  was  going 
to  die.  If  he  did,  his  manner  gave  no  sign  of  it.  So 
far  as  spirit  could  dominate  the  suffering  body  he 
seemed  stronger.  His  desire  was  to  live,  he  willed 

403 


THE  FORERUNNER 

to  live,  and  the  arrival  of  the  new  doctor  had  diffused 
a  distinct  atmosphere  of  hope  to  which  Dan  was  the 
first  to  respond. 

He  got  a  clear  impression  of  this  man's  personality 
— his  tall  erect  figure,  his  keen,  handsome  face,  his 
smile,  his  curt,  positive  manner,  the  gentleness  and 
sureness  of  his  touch.  Alone  with  him,  Dan  asked 
what  his  chances  were. 

"Ah,  you'll  pull  through  all  right/'  the  doctor  said, 
with  his  vigorous  smile  and  his  practised  way  of  meet 
ing  just  such  inquiries.  So  potent  was  his  manner, 
so  buoyant  his  assurance,  that  Dan  was  almost  con 
tent — was  willing  at  least  to  resign  himself  into  those 
strong  and  deft  hands.  And  the  first  effect  of  the 
oxygen  soon  passing  off,  he  felt  the  struggle  for  breath 
becoming  acute  again,  and  at  the  same  time  drowsi 
ness  creeping  upon  him,  like  a  fog,  thick  and  dull. 

In  moments  of  full  consciousness  during  the  next 
day  he  tried  to  tell  the  doctor  that  Anna  was  on  the 
way,  that  his  wife  was  coming  to  him,  and  he  must 
see  her.  He  tried  to  say,  too,  that  if  he  was  in  danger 
he  wanted  to  be  told  the  truth. 

But  the  full  force  of  the  fever  was  now  upon  him, 
and  the  second  lung  had  been  attacked.  The  struggle 
over  his  tired  body  had  become  acute — the  incessant 
effort  of  the  doctors  to  relieve  and  stimulate  the  fail 
ing  heart.  Unable  to  accomplish  its  task,  the  heart — 
weakened  by  the  year's  long  strain — was  giving  way, 
as  they  had  feared,  before  the  crisis  of  the  disease 
was  reached. 

He  lay,  when  they  would  let  him  alone,  very 
quietly,  in  a  half-stupor,  yet  seeing  and  hearing  what 

404 


THE   FORERUNNER 

went  on  about  him.  But  as  life  ebbed  from  him  the 
pain  of  life  went  too.  The  fever  and  weakness  acted 
as  an  anodyne,  soothing  his  brain  and  nerves. 

It  was  only  when  by  means  of  some  powerful 
stimulant  they  roused  him,  that  he  now  suffered.  In 
one  such  moment  he  realized  what  was  happening, 
what  was  before  him.  His  eyes  showed  the  sudden 
pang  of  that  realization  as  they  filled  with  tears. 

His  life  was  going  out  with  the  old  year — the  year 
of  his  failures  and  unhappiness.  The  new  year  had 
seemed  to  promise  redemption  of  all.  And  from  the 
sense  of  life  unlived,  of  his  own  promises  unfulfilled, 
those  tears  sprang. 

"Anna    .    .    ."  he  murmured.     "Anna   .   .    .?" 

"To-morrow,"  they  said  to  him.  "She  will  be  here 
to-morrow." 

To-morrow?  Great  waves  of  a  gray  and  misty  sea 
rolled  between  him  and  the  morrow;  he  felt  himself 
lifted  high  on  those  waves  and  sinking  deep  and 
deeper  into  their  cold  overwhelming  mass.  He  could 
never  pass  them;  his  strength  would  not  suffice  for 
his  desire.  He  saw,  and  surrendered  it.  While  he 
was  still  conscious  he  became  perfectly  calm,  peace 
ful.  His  eyes,  which  were  not  to  see  the  completion 
of  his  work,  nor  the  face  of  his  wife  again,  had  a  con 
templative,  remote  look;  as  though  he  turned  of 
himself  from  the  shore  already  slipping  past  him,  to 
meet  those  mists  of  sleep. 


405 


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